


ACOTAR prompts

by ABookAndACoffee



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Angst, Drabbles, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, Nightmares, Self-Harm, Smut, be warned, this has a lot of stuff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-09
Updated: 2018-08-12
Packaged: 2018-09-23 01:13:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 37
Words: 39,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9633491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ABookAndACoffee/pseuds/ABookAndACoffee
Summary: This is a collection of shorter works (less than 2k usually) based on dialogue prompts I receive on tumblr. It's a mix of ships and I have too many chapters to give you a description here, but they should have summaries. I think. Or at least the dialogue prompt.





	1. Feysand

Rhysand was awoken by a murmuring coming from the balcony of his and Feyre’s bedroom. At first, the noise bled into the sounds of his dream – something strange and lost nearly as soon as he woke – but as consciousness took over, he realized that this sound was real. It had been a whimper, something akin to speaking, but not quite that, either. He went still listening for it again. 

When he didn’t hear it, he reached across the bed, looking for his mate, but found a rumpled mess of sheets instead. 

He sat up, blinking. “Feyre?” He called out for her, not yet able to distinguish reality from his dream. The sun was nearly up, he guessed, based on the slightly orange tinge that was appearing over the horizon. He and Feyre were not the kind to get out of bed quite so early, so her disappearance immediately put him on edge. 

The sound came from the balcony again, and his attention honed in on it. It was Feyre – sitting outside, making a pained noise. He could see her from their bed. She seemed to be folded in over herself, her palms resting on the ground, hair hanging over her face. 

He scented the air – no blood, no wounds, nothing seemed amiss. No fear, either, but something else… His next thought went to her dreams. He had thought she was healing; she hadn’t had nightmares like that in decades. 

She spoke again, and this time he was able to make out her words. 

“You can’t die. Please don’t die,” she was saying, rocking slightly on the ground. The light of day was not yet strong enough to illuminate her entirely, and he couldn’t tell what she was huddled over. 

“Feyre!” Rhys jumped from the bed and was by her side in an instant. “Feyre, what’s wrong?” He reached for her slowly, not wanting to disturb her if she was still in that stage between nightmare and reality. He remembered with dread the other nights when he had felt her despair through the bond, and then later, when he had stayed up with her while she shook, panic radiating from her in thick waves. 

She looked up at him, sorrow filling her expression. “Rhys?” 

“I’m here, are you ok? What’s going on?” He knelt down beside her and was startled to see that she had a small potted violet in front of her. 

“Elain’s plant is dying. She gave it to me as a gift and I was trying so hard to keep it alive. Just once, I wanted to keep a plant alive.” She looked back down at the plant with its wilting leaves and lack of flowers. 

Rhys tried to control his sigh of relief, but it nearly manifested itself as laughter. “Is that all? You didn’t have a nightmare, or…?” 

“No, you don’t understand, I really wanted to keep this one alive for her,” Feyre pouted. “She’s so good at this kind of thing, and I don’t understand how. I just thought it was really pretty, and now it’s going to die.” Her lower lip trembled and Rhys placed a hand underneath her chin. 

“Feyre, darling. Do you want me to help you take care of it?” He tried to keep himself from looking at her quivering bottom lip and bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. He was nearly giddy with relief that she hadn’t had a flashback or a nightmare, that when he had reached across the bed she was not instead in the bathing room retching and shaking. 

She looked at him hopefully. “Would you? Maybe between the two of us we can manage one flower.” 

He nodded at her, putting a hand under her elbow to pick her up off the ground. 

“Feyre, why are you awake so early, and why were you out on the balcony,” he asked. 

She shrugged. “Elain and Lucien are coming today and I was going to make sure everything was ready for their visit, and then I saw the flower.” She gestured helplessly at it. “Then I thought that maybe it would be happier outside. I really don’t know. I’m tired.” She sighed and leaned into his shoulder as he took the pot from her. 

“When they get here, let’s ask her what to do with it, shall we?” Feyre nodded sleepily, and Rhys guided her back to the bed. She fell back into it without question when he suggested that she get some more rest before she tried to take care of anything else for the day. Crawling in after her, Rhys wrapped his arms around her, smiling into her neck at the thought that this was perhaps the worst problem they had had in quite some time. 


	2. Breakfast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhys and Feyre are having breakfast when Feyre lets her imagination wander and she starts making demands about what they will do with the rest of their day.

Feyre is buttering her toast while Rhys talks about their plans for the day, his early morning energy soothing to her. Since the war ended they have settled into a regular routine of breakfast together, followed by work (there is always some Lord or another who wants something from one of them), followed by a late dinner. Their routine is comfortable, domestic, and maybe even a bit boring – just the way they had hoped it would be. The beginning of their relationship had been fraught with enough problems to fill more than one lifetime, so the simple act of sitting down to breakfast with Rhys, after having woken up in his arms, is all that Feyre wants. 

Unless she wakes up in a mood like this. She is feeling slightly restless, like she has an itch she needs to scratch and she isn’t even certain what kind of itch it is or how to take care of it… 

Rhysand continues talking about their plans, about where he needs to go and who he needs to see, and she lets her attention wander innocently. He is saying something now about Tarquin and her thoughts begin to drift back to the past, trying to piece together what it is she needs now. 

The first time they had been to the Summer Court wasn’t exactly pleasant, but in the years since they have made their peace with Tarquin, however tenuous it may be. The Summer Court, however, has a lovely beach, on which they could spend an afternoon wrapped in each other… Of course there are other places in Prythian that they could go for a bit more privacy. There is always the cabin, but that isn’t quite what she needs. Her mind begins to wander even further away from what Rhys is saying, thinking of the places she hasn’t been yet, the places she wants to go… 

“Feyre?” Rhysand’s voice cuts into her thoughts, forcing her to push them to the back of her mind. Realizing that he was still speaking and she hasn’t heard a word he said, she smiles with embarrassment. 

“Yes,” she asks, clearing her throat. 

“I thought I lost you,” he says slyly, suspecting the turn her thoughts have taken. 

She smiles innocently at him. “Not a chance. But I don’t think we should do anything you just said,” she adds bluntly. “I have a better idea.” 

“Really? And what does my High Lady want to do today?” While he is not entirely sure what is on Feyre’s mind, he has been working as much as she has, and has an idea that what she is going to say involves nothing like responsibility. She still keeps the walls in her mind up – a necessary precaution for a High Lady – and he doesn’t mind affording her that privacy. 

“First, keep calling me your High Lady,” she demands. 

“Done, High Lady.” She raises her eyebrows at him. “ _My_ High Lady. Apologies.” He grins wickedly at her, liking where this game is going. 

“Second, I want you to take me to the Winter Court. I’ve heard they have some hot springs there that are quite restorative.” She tilts her head and shifts her shoulders so one strap of her nightgown falls slightly. She doesn’t make any moves to replace it. “And they even have some where you can bathe nude.” 

He growls under his breath. “And this is what my High Lady wants?” 

“I’m not done,” she says sharply. He raises his hands in submission, asking her to continue. 

“I want to go to these hot springs, and I want you to myself. I want you to stop thinking about the other Courts, other fae, I don’t care who they are. I want you to think only of me.” As she finishes, she dips her finger into the jar of jam on the table, licking it off without breaking eye contact. 

“Is there anything else you need,” he asks, attention fully on her in a way that it hadn’t been before. 

“Before we go, I want you to take me back to our bedroom and help me get ready. I am quite… tense this morning, and I don’t want to travel like that. _You_ don’t want me to travel like that.” 

He nods in agreement. “How do you suppose I help you… relieve the tension, Feyre darling?” 

Feyre stands from the table. “You know exactly how, _dearest_.” 

He stands after her, hands braced on the table that separates them. He pushes it aside in a quick, rough movement, disturbing the plates and food. Strolling up to her, a contrast to the desperation of what he had just done, he hooks a finger on the strap still hanging from her shoulder. 

“Would it have anything to do with me fucking you until you forget your own name,” he asks, slowly pulling the strap downward until her shift is hanging on her precariously. 

“You know it does,” she whispers in his ear. She nips at his neck before turning and making her way towards their bedroom. 

“As you wish, my High Lady,” he says, grinning and grabbing at her as she runs down the hallway, laughing. 


	3. Mor & Az at Rita's

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhys and Az are at Rita’s having a drink when Mor shows up unexpectedly and overhears their conversation, which leads to an awkward moment. Prompt: “Obviously you can’t tell a woman you just met that you love her, but it sucks that you can’t.”

When Mor shows up at Rita’s, the last person she expects to see is Azriel. It had taken her so long to get him to go with her that when she sees him there (and without her) she blinks to be sure that her vision isn’t deceiving her. But it isn’t, Azriel is here, sitting at the bar with Rhys. She would be slightly hurt, if she weren’t delighted by the fact that he has taken some time off for himself. 

She begins to walk towards them with her usual confident swagger when she overhears part of their discussion. 

“Obviously, you can’t tell a woman you just met that you love her, but it sucks that you can’t,” Azriel is saying, and the words cause her to stop mid-stride. She quickly finds a seat close enough so she can keep listening to them, but far away enough that they hopefully won’t notice her before she wants to be found. She doesn’t know whether the person in love with a woman is one of them, but either way she feels the blood rush to her face. 

“You wouldn’t do that anyway, Az. Even if it wasn’t completely inappropriate and creepy,” Rhys replies. 

If it’s Azriel who has fallen in love with someone… her face blanches and her stomach turns at the idea. Her mind begins to race, trying to think of who they could be talking about, the women Azriel has met recently. There was that woman the other evening who had been ogling him while they were all at dinner. Or the woman from the Winter Court whom they had gone to visit a few weeks ago, trying to get her to agree to trade. They are always coming and going, who knows who he could have met while he was away on a mission. Her heart starts to drop as the implications of that become clear. 

When Azriel starts talking again, she forces herself to stop thinking and listen. 

“There are a lot of things I wish I could have done differently. Telling her right away is one of them. It might have saved us all a lot of trouble.” If she strains her neck a bit she can see them across the room, and she watches as he looks down at his glass. 

“Even when you were a kid, Az, you were more the broody, silent type. The impulsiveness of youth would have done you no good. You just didn’t have it. And besides, it wouldn’t have worked then. Too much… there was too much going on for her, then. Even if she would have said yes.” Rhys pats him on the shoulder, and it moves Mor to see them like this together. Even if inside she is silently screaming at the implications of what they are saying. 

“I suppose you’re right,” Az concedes. “I wonder though, what if I met her now, instead of then? What would I do, if I saw her walk in this room and didn’t know her?” He looks up at the door she has just entered from as if it were a possibility. 

“Well, it’s a good thing you see her nearly every day. That she is always there when you return from missions. Isn’t it?” Rhys looks at Azriel pointedly and finishes his drink as if there is nothing more he needs to say. 

Mor begins putting pieces together, and as she does her distress grows. They aren’t talking about someone he has recently met, but someone he met a long time ago. When she heard them talking her mind had immediately gone to someone else because surely, Azriel wouldn’t be talking so openly to Rhys about how he felt about _her_. But that seems to be exactly what he is doing, and she isn’t sure if she wants to run and hide or confront him. 

She looks back up at the two men sitting at the bar, and makes a decision. Standing from her table, she puts on a bright smile and approaches the two. She falters for a moment when Az starts speaking again, but persists. 

“Morrigan is…” he is saying as she gets near enough for Rhys to notice her, and at his surprise Azriel turns to look at her. 

“Mor, we didn’t expect to see you here this evening” Rhys starts. “I was just leaving. You’ll have to make do with Az for company.” As he leaves he winks at his brother, and the transparency of the gesture has them both rolling their eyes. 

Once they are alone, Mor takes Rhys’ seat at the bar. Az has always been a bit taciturn, but right now he seems unsure of himself, not just quiet. Given what she just overheard, Mor is even less sure of how to handle this conversation, or where he might take it. 

“So, what were you two talking about,” she asks, giving him an opportunity to cover for himself. The bartender sets down her usual drink order without asking, and she clings to the glass. 

Az clears his throat. “I just wanted some advice on something. Nothing, really.” 

Mor waits for him to continue, and when he doesn’t she asks if she can offer her assistance. 

“No. Well… maybe.” She squirms in her chair a bit at the possibility that he might open up to her, but bites her tongue so he can continue. 

“I want to tell someone something important. And I’m just not sure how to do it.” 

“Well you are normally an open book, Az…” She grins at him. 

“What would you do, if someone cared for you, and didn’t tell you? If you cared for him, too?” He isn’t looking directly at her as he speaks, but rather at her reflection in the mirror behind the bar. 

She is facing him, watching his profile as she speaks. “I think… I would wonder, after a while. Why he hadn’t said anything. I’d probably doubt myself and try to move on with other men. Even though it never would never work out in the end, with the others.” 

“Because of this other guy,” he confirms. 

“Mm-hmm, this other guy. But you know, women don’t have infinite patience, Az. So hypothetically, this other guy, the one with feelings, who she cares about, too, should really, really say something. Hypothetically speaking.” 

“Hypothetically speaking,” he repeats. 

A few moments pass in silence while he contemplates her response. “Would you like to have dinner with me, Mor? Just me?” He finally turns to look at her, and his expression has her wanting to take his face in between her hands to kiss him, to reassure him. 

Instead, she smiles gently at him. “Of course. I would love to.” 

Turning back to the bar, she catches his gaze in the mirror, and their small smiles gradually turn to uncontrollable grins as they finish their drinks. 


	4. Screw you - moriel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mor decides to strip in front of Azriel, and he does nothing. (Based on her comment to Feyre in chapter 52.) Prompt: "screw you"

When Morrigan wanders into Azriel’s room, she is at the end of her tether. She has been thinking of this moment for months, longer, and she has finally decided that she is tired of waiting for him. She considers knocking on the door, but her courage will only last for so long, so she accepts that this will be a dramatic entrance. As she enters his room unannounced, she hopes it will be a fitting beginning, rather than an awkward footnote in their long, complicated history. 

Azriel is walking out of his bathroom, clearly getting ready for bed when she bursts in. He looks up at her, startled to see her in his room. 

“Mor, is something wrong?” He looks at her flushed face and steps towards her, reaching for her to guide her to a seat. 

“Hi, Az. Nothing is wrong,” she says, slipping out of his grip. She begins pacing across his floor but stops herself. He looks at her, questioning. She is wearing a different dress from the one she’d had on at dinner, and he wonders why she changed before coming to see him. This is one of his favorites, though he doesn’t think he has ever told her that. The blue makes her hair look nearly gold, and as she moves the fabric swishes around her long legs. 

She takes a breath, calming herself before she speaks or takes another step. Mor has been thinking about this moment for so long that her muscles are taut, her movements sharp yet barely controlled. 

When she begins speaking, she has to begin again, her voice catching in her throat. “Az, I need to say some things to you.” He sits on the bed and, taking that as a sign of acquiescence, she continues. “Azriel, I think you have feelings for me. And I have feelings for you. It has been ages since…” she pauses, unsure of how to bring up the weeks after they met, after she had been with Cassian and then Azriel had found her in the Autumn Court. It has been 100 years, although sometimes the wounds feel fresh. 

She gestures behind herself impatiently, and he nods, letting her sidestep discussion that she is not here for, that they have already had a dozen times. In the months after, while she healed with him by her side, she had explained everything to him. He had already known, of course - there were few in the Night Court or the Court of Nightmares who didn’t know what had been done to Morrigan, and why - but it had taken him a while to accept her choice. Even if he lives with the consequences of her choice, continues to help her heal, every day. 

Now that they are at a place of relative peace, she has decided to see if they could work, if he could accept her after everything. But there are factors she hasn’t counted on, old wounds that have nothing to do with her. These wounds will eat away at her, though they aren’t hers, because they are a part of him. 

“Azriel, I just want… I want to be with you.” She has finally stopped fidgeting and looks him in the eye with her last words, something like hope and fear mixed in her expression. 

He stares at her, sitting across the room in nothing but a towel around his waist, and he feels exposed in a way that he hadn’t when she walked in. 

She removes the top of her dress, pulling her arms through the straps while he watches. His breath hitches audibly and he remains where he is, across the room from her. She can sense that he wants her, wants her to continue, and she maintains eye contact with him while she pushes the dress over her hips, leaving her in scraps of lace that leave nothing to the imagination. 

She is making a choice now; not only to be with him, but to give him everything. They have seen each other through what are surely the worst moments of their lives, and she is hoping to be with him for the best. If only he would stop staring at her like that, if only he would move… 

“Mor, I can’t,” he finally manages to get out. She freezes, horrified that he waited so long, that he has let her get this far without saying anything, without stopping her. She is standing in front of him with 100 years of history and heartbreak and joy, and while he looks for all the world like he wants her, he is saying no. 

“Mor, I’m so sorry.” He is trying to find words, and he is afraid that the suddenness of her actions has prompted an uncharacteristic spontaneity in himself that he wants to control. “You’re right. I do care for you. More than you will probably ever know.” 

He stands and moves towards her. Mistaking his intentions she reaches for him, but he holds her at arm’s length. 

“Don’t be angry, Mor. I will always want you. But I can’t. You don’t understand what I am, who I am…” he trails off helplessly, wishing she would understand without him having to explain it. 

She knows about his family, what they did to him. But he can’t help but wonder if she refuses to see what they turned him into. He saved her because he loved her, because he was raging that someone could lay their hands on her in that way. He thinks that might be the extent of goodness in him, that everything decent and worthy in him comes from her. And he can’t drag her into the darkness that makes up his dreams, his nightmares. 

She searches his face, looking for clues that he will change his mind, that he hasn’t just watched her strip and bare her soul, only to reject her. When she sees no sign that he will move, her expression becomes hard. Shame and anger and heartbreak are creating a reservoir in her, one she doesn’t see the bottom of. 

“Spare me the excuses, Az. I’ve known you for a long time. I know you better than anyone. If you don’t really want me, please tell me. Please, just… tell me.” Her chin has begun quivering with the effort of maintaining her composure and he stops himself from reaching for her. 

“I love you, Mor. But you don’t want me,” he says, wishing he could say something, anything, to keep from hurting her. “There are things about me that you don’t see. You think you see all of me, but you can’t. If you did, you wouldn’t be asking me this right now.” 

“Don’t tell me what I want. You want to act like I don’t know, like you’ve really managed to keep yourself hidden from me all these years… like I don’t know who you are? What you are? I told you, I know better than anyone.” She wipes at her cheek angrily as tears begin to fall uncontrollably. She isn’t even sobbing, her breath is even, but somehow the tears keep coming. 

He reaches up to brush her cheek, but she pulls away with a jerk. 

“Screw you, Azriel,” she whispers, leaving the door open as she goes back to her own room. 

She has left her dress on the floor of his room, and he waits a moment before he leans to pick it up. He pulls at the fabric between his hands, the beading catching on his callouses. He runs his fingers over the material as if he could recall the woman who had just been in it, bring her back to him and make it right. 

With a sigh, he closes his bedroom door.


	5. Bite Me - Feysand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feyre and Rhys are communicating through the bond while she is in the Spring Court when he starts to tease her. (NSFW!) Prompt: "Bite me"

Feyre is pacing the floor of her old room at the Spring Court, wearing through the pattern in the rug at the foot of her bed, when she finally hears from Rhys. 

She has been waiting for word from him all morning. Tamlin and Lucien left early, leaving her alone in the house. Tamlin’s request for her to stay home had been met with a couple of sweet smiles, a nod, and the excuse that she had a headache, anyway. She tried not to sound _too_ excited at the prospect of him leaving, and shot a silent look of thanks at Lucien for devising a way to get Tamlin out of the house for the day. 

In the weeks since she has been here, she has become grateful for a few things. That Tamlin insisted on them keeping separate bedrooms, even while they were engaged. That Lucien has become a far stronger, more willing ally than she had bargained for. 

And then there is the fact that she can communicate with Rhys through the bond. Tamlin has, unsurprisingly, let her in on few of his plans, but she manages to catch hints here and there that she sends to Rhys. She recently told him all that she has learned, and so that is not why she is trying to communicate with him now. 

Hours since she first started trying to get him to answer her, she is about to give up when a voice comes through the bond. 

_Feyre…_

She stops her pacing, exasperated. 

_Prick_. He laughs gently in response, and she closes her eyes to focus on the sound. 

_Do you have news for me? Has little Lucien been helping you?_ He sounds far too content for how long he has kept her waiting, but she’ll take the moment for what it is. 

_No news, and don’t call him that_ , she replies. She has other things on her mind that have nothing to do with Lucien, or Tamlin, or anyone else but her mate. 

_Why so desperate to talk then, Feyre?_ She can practically hear the smirk on his lips and rolls her eyes. 

_Remember when you promised me a wall? I was just… thinking about that._ She pauses, waiting for a response. 

_What are you saying?_ His tone has lost its playfulness, and has taken on a deeper, more seductive timbre. 

_I was just wondering how that might go. If you were here with me now. I want you to tell me what you would do._ In the weeks since they have been separated she has wondered how she would be able to stand it, whether the frenzy, as he had called it, would give her a moment’s peace. Apparently, she has realized, the mating bond is going to be in full force no matter how far apart they are or how long it will be until they can see each other. 

_Feyre, darling, do you want me to talk dirty to you?_

She nods in her excitement, forgetting he can’t see her. _What do you want me to do, Rhys? What do you want to do to me?_

He hums in approval at her questions and sends an image to her of the two of them in the cabin, on the dining room table. 

_The wall_ , she insists. _I’m wearing a ridiculous dress right now but I could tell you what I have on under it if you’d like._

_Demanding, aren’t we? I think I would prefer if you were wear nothing under that dress._

She whimpers at this, already thinking of his hands running underneath the layers she is in to travel up her thighs and move the fabric over her hips… 

_Feyre, darling. I’m supposed to be telling you how this will go._

_Get on with it, then_ , she replies. _Tell me what you want me to do._

_I want you to go stand in front of a mirror. I want to see you._ She does as he asks, standing in front of the full length mirror that can barely fit the reflection of the dress she is wearing. One Tamlin had said was his favorite, just one more small concession to keep him pacified. 

_First, take that ridiculous thing off,_ he commands her. She smirks and undoes the laces, the straps, the buttons, all the various contraptions that make these clothes so impractical. It takes her so long that his voice comes through again in a growl - _Go faster. I’d rip that off you in a second._

_Now who’s demanding?_ She finally lets the dress fall to the floor, revealing sheer black lace lingerie that is purely for him. 

_Feyre… touch yourself for me, darling. Show me where you want my hands._

She complies, putting her hands on her stomach as if he were over her shoulder and could do it himself. She slides her hands up, one cupping a breast while the other goes to her neck. Her eyes have fallen shut, but he knows that she has let her head fall back as if it were against his chest, that her other hand is running over her breast and pinching her nipple through the delicate fabric. 

_Rhys… I want you to touch me now. I want your lips on my neck and your hands on my breasts and I want to feel you hard against my back, please._ She moans out loud, trying to imagine her own hands are his, to remember the weight and feel of him against her. She runs one hand back down from her throat to her stomach, feeling the planes and curves of her body as if her hands could replace his, when all she wants to do is reach behind herself to run her fingers through his hair while he does this for her. She sends him this image, of his dark hair brushing her as he runs his lips along the space between her shoulder and neck the way she likes while he brushes her body with his fingers, grasping at her when he is finally done teasing her. 

_I want you to touch yourself, tell me how wet you are, now._ His voice has lost its teasing quality and has taken on a hint of desperation. She lets a hand slip beneath the waistband of her panties and finds what she had already suspected, what she knew he has already sensed. 

_I’m soaking, Rhys. I’m so wet, if you were here right now you could be inside of me…_ Her fingers slip between her folds and begins to stroke herself the way that he does. She sends the sensation to him, of the feel of her folds between her fingers, her clit under her thumb, the sounds she makes, and smiles to herself when she hears him mutter a curse. 

_I want to fuck you right now, Feyre, I want to rip that fabric from your body and run my tongue along your skin and taste you and play you with my fingers until you beg and scream and then when you can’t think of anything but my name I will fuck you against that wall, darling. I am so hard for you right now, you have no idea…_

She groans in desperation and strokes herself faster, opening her eyes to send an image of herself to him. She is intensely aware of the fact that she is standing alone in her room and sighs, but continues working herself to an edge. 

His voice suddenly breaks through the scene they have created for each other. _Of course, I can’t do any of those things, being so far away…_

“Bite me,” she says out loud, her frustration getting the best of her. 

She wheels around when someone behind her speaks. 

“Just tell me where, Feyre darling.” It’s a voice she has been wanting to hear outside of the bond for weeks now, and she runs to Rhys, nearly knocking him down with the force of her body slamming into his. She throws her arms around him, breathing in his scent. 

“Why are you here, how, I don’t understand,” she says in a rush of words. 

“I don’t know if we have time for that, darling.” He takes the hand that had been between her legs and puts her fingers in his mouth one at a time while she watches. 

“Fine. Do your worst,” she responds, grinning. 

Grabbing her around the waist he kisses her, hard and deep, until there is no space between them. He pushes her until she is up against the wall of her bedroom and rips away the few pieces of fabric that are still on her. With a quick movement he lifts her and, after freeing himself, enters her in a swift movement. They both groan at the feeling they have been missing and wanting for weeks, and he pauses for a moment, holding her against the wall while she adjusts. Her head has fallen forward onto his shoulder, and he coaxes her up to look at him. 

She nods at his silent request and looks into his eyes as he begins to set a slow pace in her, each of them savoring the few stolen minutes they have before he has to leave, and she has to continue her ruse. 

She runs her fingers through his hair like she had wanted, whispering his name over and over to make up for all the times when she has wanted to scream it out loud and finish pretending that she isn’t in love with her mate. A sob nearly escapes her at her relief, of having him here with her, even for these few minutes, for this. That they found each other at all seems like a gift, and she knows that they will be together again, after a time, but the struggle that still lies before them makes them cling to one another with more fervor than they had thought possible. 

Feyre reaches one hand over to a desk next to them to brace herself as Rhys’ thrusts grow more and more insistent. They are louder now than they have been in the past, as if they can make up for all the lonely nights they have spent, that they will spend, until the end is in sight. Her senses are made up of nothing but his warm breath on her, his cock thrusting and filling her, the heat and sweat of his body against hers, the press of his lips on her when they manage to find each other in the rhythm. 

As she gets close to her edge she nearly regrets it, that he will have to go. Even as she races towards the climax she had wanted with him inside of her she already misses him, her mate, and feels the solitude of the coming night pressing on her. She cries his name and claws at his back to leave a piece of herself with him, knowing she will savor the bruises she will have from his fingertips currently pressing into her thighs. 

They come together in a mess of sweat and heat, letting themselves cry out together and as they come down they whisper to each other, promises for what they will do in the future, when they are able to see each other without pretense or subterfuge. When they will fall asleep in each other’s arms again and they can declare to the world that they are still mates, that their bond is far too deep to ever be sundered. 

He places small kisses on her face and neck after he lets her down, helping her to clean up before she dresses again. She will rid herself and the room of his scent, but not until she must. 

Before he leaves he turns to her. “Feyre, darling?” 

“Yes, Rhys?” She looks up at him and he strokes her cheek. 

“I love you.” She smiles at him one last time before he leaves.


	6. We can't keep doing this - moriel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mor & Az have some secret relationship drama. A teeny bit nsfw at the beginning. Prompt: "We can't keep doing this."

“We can’t keep doing this, Mor,” Azriel says against the skin of her throat, even as he pulls her towards him and renews his own intensity. 

“I know. Tomorrow, we’ll stop,” she says, pulling her arms out of her shirt and throwing it to the side. She smiles to herself, knowing that they are both aware of the lie before it leaves her lips. 

They have been seeing each other like this for months. A late evening at Rita’s after their friends had left led to them falling into bed together, which has turned into clandestine meetings at the House of Wind, the cabin; anywhere they can find time to be alone together, they make their excuses and no one else is the wiser. It has become routine for them to wake up together, early enough so they won’t be caught. They have become practiced at acting as if, when they see each other for breakfast, it is for the first time that morning. 

She doesn’t care how they come together, if anyone else ever knows, as long as he will give himself to her. And he does, every night he can, silently entering her room. She waits in a chair, on the bed, it doesn’t matter. Their bodies always meet without a word, knowing exactly what the other wants. 

He runs his hands up her bare back, wrapping her long hair around his fist to pull her head to the side gently, allowing him access to her neck. He began the familiar practice under the pretense that her hair was _everywhere_ , but continued it when he saw how much pleasure it brought her, when a shiver ran through her at the exposure, at the way she was at his mercy. He would never hurt her, only… he lets her know that she is his, that he will bend and mold her body for both of their pleasure. 

He trails wet kisses down her neck now, pushing the strap of her bra off her shoulder. The only sound in the room is their breathing, clothing being removed, her small gasps and moans as his hands travel familiar paths across her body. 

She reaches forward to bring his hips into her, so she can feel how hard he is. She is beginning to unbutton his pants when he grabs her hands. 

“Wait,” he says, even as he is groaning and leaning into her, and the hesitation in his voice makes her pause. 

“What is it?” She ducks her head to catch his gaze, not letting it escape her own. 

“Mor, I won’t be here tomorrow.” 

She pulls away in surprise. “What do you mean, you won’t be here tomorrow?” 

“I have to leave. In the morning. Rhys is sending me,” he says. “I’ll be gone for a couple of months.” When he feels her stiffen, a rush of shame and regret goes through him. 

She pulls away further now, hurt on her face. “When were you planning on telling me this? When I fell asleep? Were you going to whisper it in my ear before you left?” Her hands release him. A step back. She replaces the strap he had moved so that it rests on her shoulder again and her hands fall, leaden at her sides. 

“Of course not, Mor.” He moves towards her, trying to replace the distance she created. When she lets him, he continues. “I wasn’t sure if I would be needed. I didn’t want to say, in case…” 

She cocks her head at him. A bitterness sweeps through her and she feels as if she can’t control the words coming from her mouth. “In case what? In case you wouldn’t need to tell me anything? Why keep me apprised of your personal affairs? After all, it’s not as if you owe me anything.” She regrets the words as soon as they appear. 

It has been months since they have been apart for any amount of time. They see each other nearly every day, and it has been like that since the beginning, really. And since this thing began to grow between them, they see each other nearly every night, too. 

She feels a void beginning to grow in her chest, a hollow in the place where she has kept a piece of him all to herself. Just the thought of him being gone for so long is causing that space in her to crack, and the air is leaving her lungs along with him. 

“I didn’t want to worry you, Mor. You know I have to go.” Azriel is watching her expression change, carefully cataloguing her movements, waiting for the moment when she will let him back in. He had put off telling her about this particular mission until he knew it was a certainty, and he is now realizing the extent to which they have become entwined, watching her struggle with the implications of his leaving. 

She nods. “Did you…” she begins, he and waits for her to continue, even as he sees her struggle with indecision. 

“Did you tell Rhys anything? Anything that might make him send someone else? Did you ask him to send someone else?” There is a hint of hope and desperation in her voice that breaks something in his chest. 

“No,” he says simply, and she thinks she would fall to pieces right there if she weren’t so angry at him now. Her chest rises with her sigh, her attempts at controlling her response. 

She nods, trying to figure out her next move when he speaks again. 

“I want to be with you, Mor, but I’m not sure if… I don’t want to be away for so long. You have no idea how much I won’t be able to stand this.” He reaches up to cup her cheek in his hand and she allows it, ignoring the tear that falls to his fingers. He wipes it with his thumb and pulls her into his chest and her breath is muffled as she rests there a moment. 

“I would walk out of this room right now and show everyone the marks you leave on my skin, if it would make you stay,” she says against his bare skin, knowing it would be useless. Azriel’s sense of duty and loyalty will never change, and she would never ask him to choose. “I hate washing away your scent almost every morning, to keep it from everyone. Now I won’t have to.” 

She starts when the words he said earlier come rushing back to her and she backs away again, keeping her hands on his chest while looking up at him. “This is why you said we can’t keep doing this?” Maybe he is saying more than she thought, maybe he really meant it, that they can’t, won’t, do this again. 

“No, Mor.” He has a confused look on his face until he understands what she is implying, what she thought he had been trying to say. “No, Mor, I just don’t want to see you like this. I don’t want to make you feel like this.” 

“You don’t understand, Az.” She shakes her head. “I am like this because I will miss you, I will hate it, but I also know that when you come back… “ The thought of seeing him again already has her smiling. “I am like this because I love you.” The words spill out of her and they look at each other in shock. 

That word has never passed between them before, but he takes her face gently into his hands again to kiss her and she melts into him. Her heart surges, and with the knowledge that this is the last night they have together for weeks, they throw themselves into each other like they haven’t since the first time they broke. That night they had found pieces of themselves they hadn’t known were missing, in the way he played her with his fingers and whispered his devotion in her ear, in the way she cared for him and made him forget his shadows. 

When she feels him wake to go the next morning she clutches a fist to her chest, trying to hold on to the moment, wishing she didn’t have to leave the sheets he has warmed until he is back again. 

When he leaves, it is with a whisper in her ear - “I love you.”


	7. Continuation of chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a continuation of chapter 4 - Azriel is on his way home from a mission and he isn't sure if Mor will be there after their last argument.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if it is a little weird reading this as two separated chapters. I considered moving it into its own fic, but it was based on a prompt and people have subscribed to this and requested it be continued and blah, blah, blah. Let me know what you think, either way. :)

When Azriel returns from a mission a week later, he isn’t sure what to expect. Morrigan has been waiting there for him every time, since she was able. He has never found out how she knows when to be there, only that she is. He didn’t want to become used to this, to expect her, anticipate her, but he finds himself dreading the idea that he will return without her there waiting for him. To return from a mission alone, to have only Rhys to report to and then an empty room to greet him… 

He shudders to realize that she has been there not only to clean him of blood and mud and help him out of his leathers, but that she has done much, much more. She has silenced the screams, calmed his racing heart, reassured him that what he has done was necessary; she has been there to put back the pieces of something he didn’t realized was fractured, and now the thought that she won’t be there and the implications of this are rushing to him with full force. 

The words she said before he left have haunted him for their truth. She had said so little, really, but what had been communicated between them in those moments after she barged into his room was sufficient to change everything. That they care for each other; that she wants to be with him; and of course he wants to be with her, but wanting and doing were two different things, and if only she could see that he is not what he seems… 

There is nothing he would have done differently - he wants to take it all back. Equal parts of him are pulled towards her and repulsed by himself, by the thought that he would touch her with these hands that have so recently committed acts he would hide from her. If she didn’t exist in his world he could retreat into himself, do what he needed for his brothers, and then be done with his responsibilities. He would ask nothing more from this life. 

But having had the experience of being pulled into the light by her, of being forced to confront what it might be to have a full life, he knows that this is not what he wants. Whether he feels worthy or not is beside the point, is irrelevant to what he wants. A part of his heart is content to hide in the shadow he was born into, while the other part longs for the sort of life that her existence is proof of. 

He knows the darkness she was born to. The nightmares. In the months and years after they met he had watched her struggle to understand the willingness with which her family had thrown her to the wolves. She worked to reconcile the torture of the past that kept her shackled in fear, even while it was that torture that had freed her from being sold as chattel. Yet there is still hope in her, and hope is something he had long ago decided he couldn’t afford. Not for himself. 

His mission was particularly difficult this time. Growing up with his brothers, his family, he became used to the fact that others would treat him as they wanted. Cruelty, the occasional false kindness; he knew that he should not expect much from those around him. Expectations were always tempered by the inevitable betrayal of trust. Until Rhys, and Cassian, and Morrigan, he had no idea that he might have been made for something different, for something other than suffering. 

No matter how much he sees, what he experiences, he will never understand how this disregard can extend to others, to those who don’t deserve it. His own actions he takes as necessary, as a part of what he was made to do. There is no one else who can perform the tasks he does with only a sense of duty. They would be plagued with a sense of guilt, of horror at what their own hands can do. 

Not him. He is free of these things, or so he thought, until he realized how much Mor has done to relieve this burden. 

He contemplates these thoughts as he returns home. What she has done without him realizing. How she has been there not only for her cousin’s spymaster, but for him as a creature whose shadows are only a fraction of the whole. 

When he lands, he doesn’t see her figure. This stark contrast, the empty space that her body usually fills, makes him feel as if he has taken her for granted, as if he has been looking at her as part of the landscape. He usually knows her by her silhouette, lit from behind by the light of the fire she starts for his benefit. His target is not the balcony, or his room, but her outline. And now it is not there. 

His jaw tightens, recognizing that this is what he should have known to expect. That expectations have only led to disappointment for him, in the past. And that this is something he has caused himself. Landing, he roughly grasps the buckles that hold his leathers on, ready to storm in to give a report to Rhys and then cloister himself in his room. 

“Azriel.” 

Her voice comes from around the corner, past his field of vision. His anger at himself is frozen the moment he hears her soft tones. In those three syllables, he knows that whatever has happened in the past will not change their bond. He steps into his bedroom. A sigh that will never get so far as his throat echoes through him, an inward sign of relief and gratitude that he catalogues. 

Morrigan is near the door, indecision keeping her from waiting for him openly. 

She only had a moment’s pause when she learned when he would return. It wasn’t about whether or not she would go - she would go every time, to repay the one time he had come for her. It wasn’t about wounded pride, either. Punishment is something she might have doled out when she was younger, when she understood Azriel (and herself) less. Now, she recognizes the harm it would do, to leave him on his own after having become his support. And she cares too much to leave him alone in some of his most vulnerable moments. 

In the week since her confession, she has wrestled with what she will say, how she will act. Her anger has cooled, though her frustration is still fresh. 

She is standing with one arm still crossed in front of her while she holds the other out to him, palm up. She pushes herself off the wall she was leaning against. There is little warmth in her expression, but her brown eyes betray a softness that he will do anything to guard, now more than ever. She is dressed for dinner still, the cream-colored fabric hissing softly as she moves. 

He places his hand in hers, grasping it tightly. 

With a sigh, she turns to lead him to the washroom where they complete the next steps of their ritual. He pulls on her hand, holding her back. 

“Mor.” She turns back to him, tilting her head. “I’m sorry.” Something glints in her eye and she nods her head once. She looks for a moment like she might reply, but she turns instead, tugging on his hand to lead him away again. 

When they reach the washroom he sits on a stool, the one they brought there for this purpose. He watches her hands as she prepares water and a rag, as she braids her long waves to throw over her shoulder. This has never been a time for conversation, but the silence is palpable and he wants to break it in a way he hasn’t before. 

Her thin, elegant fingers begin to work at the large metal buckles of his clothing, their faces inches apart. He concentrates his gaze at the tiled floor. When he is bare from the waist up and she touches his skin, his need to hear her speak finally overwhelms him. He grabs her wrist and looks up at her. 

“Mor,” he says again, knowing that it is up to him to beg for forgiveness, that she should not suffer for the chance she took on him. For having had hope. 

“Tell me about what happened,” she says. She moves around him, working, and he clasps his hands in front of himself, lowering his head before he begins to tell her what he learned, how he found out. It being a time of relative peace doesn’t mean that his job is any easier, nor hers. She remains silent while he speaks, letting him give her as much or as little he needs. 

When his voice begins to trail off again she comes to stand before him, crossing her arms. She pauses before kneeling down in front of him and sitting back on her heels. He measures his next words carefully. 

“When I found you in the Autumn Court, I made a promise to myself,” he starts, and he sees her visibly stiffen. He reaches for one of her hands again to take it in his own, running his thumb over her unblemished palm. She remains quiet, letting him continue. 

“The things I’ve seen, Mor. The things I’ve done. Even then, before I became this,” he gestures to his dirty, bloodied clothing, “I thought I had seen the worst in people. And then I found you.” He pauses, darkness clouding his features. 

“I promised myself that I would do everything in my power to keep you from being harmed again. And it wasn’t just because of what they did. It was because I loved you.” 

Her mouth tightens, but she remains silent. 

Azriel sighs, running his free hand through his hair while the other grips hers tighter. “The thing is, Mor, I still love you. I always will. It’s part of me now. And you make me… want.” 

She waits while the word - _want_ \- and its implications ring through her. She narrows her eyes at him, silently asking him to explain himself. 

“You have made me want things, not just for you, but for myself, and they are things I never thought I could hope for. Things I never wanted to want.” This is perhaps the most terrifying thing of all. To let hope and want become a part of his life. As much as he can control his own actions, as disciplined as he is in his loyalty to Rhys’ court, his desire is out of his hands. And what he wants are things that can easily be shattered, taken. 

“Your family and mine, they are… we would be different. We already are. But we still live in their world, Mor. They resent your power, they resent that Rhys made two bastards part of his Inner Circle. If anything happened to you, if one day I came home from a mission and had done something so horrible you could never look at me again… I couldn’t live with that. We still have to live and work in a world that has chosen me for this.” He gestures again, this time towards himself. She grabs his other hand with her own and they each cling to this small part of each other while she sits kneeling on the floor in front of him. 

“Azriel, when you stayed with me, after you found me, did you wonder how I survived? I don’t mean my body. Do you know how I survive every day?” 

He shakes his head. 

“This is not their world, Az. Giving in to the idea that it is… that’s hopelessness. But what are we doing, protecting the Night Court and Velaris, what use is the Court of Dreams, if it’s their world? It isn’t. They own a piece of it. And we make this piece ours. It’s never going to be perfect. But you have to choose to make this for yourself. To take something. To take what you want. Even if you are afraid of losing it.” She moves to stand, keeping contact between their hands. 

He holds one of her hands to his face, closing his eyes as she relaxes her fingers to mold them around his features. Her dress rustles when she moves, and when he feels the brush of her lips against his he breathes in sharply and freezes. A moment later he eases into it, pulling her against him. 

When she stands up straight again, she looks down at him. “What do you want, Azriel?” 

“You.” 

“And what are you going to do about that?” 

He stands to meet her, releasing her hands to wrap her in his arms. They rest together for a moment until he returns her gesture, holding her face in his own hands before kissing her. He presses his tongue past her lips and a shiver goes through him when he tastes her for the first time, allows himself to take this one thing he wants. She drags him down closer to her and matches his hunger, her fingers running through his hair while his wander down her back. They continue this until they are breathless, clinging to each other as they shake with their need. 

When they finally pull away from each other, there is nothing left to say. They make their way out of the bathroom, hands brushing and clasping without saying a word to each other. She turns to say she will see him in the morning when he interrupts her. 

“Mor,” he starts, hesitating. “Will you stay with me?” The question has been poised on his lips since the first time she waited for him. 

Silently, she moves towards his bed, laying down. Azriel moves to lie beside her and she opens her arms to him. Resting his head against her chest, he curls into her and strokes her bare arm. 

“We will never be what they want us to be, Az.” He can feel the vibration of her chest as she speaks. “And that’s ok. It’s better. Hold on to that.” 

This is one thing; this is one desire he has allowed himself, and he makes another promise to himself. This time, he promises that he will let himself have her, that he won’t let the demons of his past determine his present. If force of wanting were enough to protect what they share, he would have chosen this long ago; as it is, he will share part of her hope, and that will have to be enough for both of them.


	8. Quit whining - feysand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feyre and Rhys need to get out of bed. He doesn't want to, so he comes up with a creative way to keep her there. Smutty! Prompt: Quit whining.

When the sunlight breaks through the billowing curtains of their bedroom, Rhys groans and covers his face with a forearm. Feyre shifts beside him, the tasks of the day already racing through her mind. She pulls at his arm, moving it from his face as she slowly blinks herself awake. 

“Come on, sleeping beauty. Time to get up.” Feyre is always the first one out of bed, having long ago become used to work that requires daylight. She has been chagrined to find, in the years since peace returned to Prythian, that her mate isn’t very easy to convince to leave their bed, except in dire circumstances. Such as when he is hungry and she won’t bring him breakfast in bed. 

Feyre tries to pull the blankets off of him, a move that has proven effective in the past. Without opening his eyes he clutches them to his chest, anticipating her move. 

“Don’t do that. I’m not getting up yet.” There is no annoyance in his voice, only a slight nasal quality that has her snickering. 

“Quit whining, darling,” she breathes into his face. “The sooner you take care of business, the sooner we can get back here, and…” 

Rhys makes an unintelligible sound in response before turning over onto his stomach. He drapes a leg over her hips and an arm over her waist, effectively trapping her and burying her under his weight with half his body. 

“Rhys,” she squeals, trying to hide her amusement. “Get off!” 

“Your laughter makes it hard to take you seriously, darling,” he finally says, turning his face so his voice is no longer muffled in his pillow. He leans over to nuzzle his nose into her neck, a movement he knows she is sensitive to. She tries to pull away as much as she can, but doesn’t get far. 

Feyre grins at him, ruffling his hair. “And this mess is what, the newest in High Lord fashion? Pretty hard to take you seriously if you don’t have time for basic hygiene after you roll out of bed.” 

“Yes, well, everyone takes me seriously either way. They have to,” he replies sleepily. He rubs his eyes and blinks himself awake a bit more to look at Feyre. “You look lovely today, darling.” He places a kiss on the tip of her nose before settling himself back into his pillows and tightening his arm around her waist. 

“You have duties to attend to, High Lord,” she says, poking him in the side as she shifts to try to leave the bed. “Didn’t they teach you that in whatever fancy school you High Fae attend?” 

He growls, batting away her hand and catching it with his own, trapping her. He twists it enough to keep her in place, but not enough to cause discomfort. A long look at the smile on his mate’s face has ideas running through his head of how he can keep her in high spirits. When it comes to him, a wicked grin takes over his expression. 

“I have more pleasant duties in mind, actually.” He lifts himself over hover over her, her wrist still caught in his hand. He kisses her hard and deep before she can protest, and he smiles into her mouth when he feels all resistance leave her body. 

“Rhys, I don’t think we have time,” she begins to say, but the feeling of her naked mate over her has lust coloring her tone. He flashes her a grin before he ducks underneath the heavy blankets covering them. 

She watches as the shape of him works its way down to her legs and she feels his hand nudging her thighs apart. She tries to speak when he settles between her legs, but falls back against the pillow when his tongue touches her center. 

“Rhys, damnit,” she gasps, and lets go at any other pretense of resistance. He begins running his tongue along her sensitive flesh, placing small bites on her inner thigh, and flicking his tongue over her clit with pressure designed to bring her to her edge quickly. She reaches underneath the blankets to guide his head where she needs it, not caring any more if they are late for whatever they need to do for the day. Grasping his hair between her fingers, she closes her eyes and savors the movement of his head between her thighs, the feel of his tongue and fingers on her. He brings her to her climax quickly, smiling to himself when he hears her cry out his name. 

He makes his way back up to her, poking his head out of the blanket from where he has crawled to rest over her. They are both flushed and he pushes aside stray locks of hair before leaning down to kiss her. “You were saying, Feyre, darling?” 

“Prick,” she replies, the smile on her lips changing the sound of the word into one that he knew means she is nowhere near angry. 

“I didn’t hear a lot of complaining while I was down there. Maybe it’s because your thighs were pressed against-“ he stops speaking when a large pillow connects with the side of his head. It nearly knocks him off of her and he laughs, finally shifting off the bed to head to the shower. 

She lays back down on the bed, pausing for a moment before she trusts her legs to carry her. 

“Feyre, darling, why are you laying about in bed? Don’t you have responsibilities to attend to,” Rhys calls from the bathroom. 

With an exasperated punch into the bedding, she gets up to join him in the bathroom, knowing that the two of them heading to shower together will make them late. Again.


	9. It's midnight - Nessian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassian finds Nesta drinking at the House of Wind in the middle of the night. Some angst and tenderness ensue. Prompt: "It's midnight. What do you want?"

When Cassian wanders into the kitchen of the House of Wind, he is startled to see Nesta sitting on a stool at the island. It is the middle of the night and he hadn’t expected anyone else to be there, let alone her. 

She fails to make any sign that she sees him in the doorway, taking another drink from her glass as if he hasn’t just come in, flinching slightly as the liquid makes its way down her throat. A half-empty bottle of bourbon sits on the counter in front of her. 

“Nesta.” Her name comes off his lips without his will, an uncertain mixture of pleasant surprise and apprehension. He waits. A small lamp on one counter is the only light in the cavernous room. She has become an odd contrast of shadows and illumination, her profile in relief while the rest of her remains in obscurity. He can make out her shape through the thin cotton nightgown she wears and makes a note to himself to look elsewhere, even as he memorizes the sight. Her hair is in a braid but it has been disturbed, as if she has just woken and gotten out of bed. 

She remains silent so he moves towards a cabinet, grabbing a glass. He turns his back to her and closes his eyes briefly. If she would just say something, call him a name, anything, he could let go of this sense of foreboding. It is rare when she doesn’t have some clever retort ready to snap at him. And now, she hadn’t even bothered saying hello. He finally turns back to her, having no more pretense to give her some semblance of privacy. 

“Nesta, what are you doing here? Are you doing alright?” She doesn’t live at the House of Wind. Nesta and Elain live in a townhouse by the Sidra, to have a space that is their own. She and Cassian have barely spoken in the weeks since she came to live in Velaris. He has to keep himself from going to her every day, to keep himself from reaching out to her. The bond that ties them together has been demanding that he find her, touch her, hear her voice. If she feels the same pull, she makes no indication. 

He hadn’t planned on seeing her here, now, and while his instinct is to approach her and place a gentle hand on her back, he knows what that would be met with. Hell, if she would let him he’d carry her to his bed, he would let her have it, sleeping on a couch or the floor. 

She hasn’t been sleeping well, a fact that she is now chagrined to realize he is aware of. Months of adjustment to this body and nothing has made a difference. There is something humming under her skin, something she realizes is power, but… she isn’t sure what to do with it, yet. Rhys has allowed her to train, to help them in their efforts against the King of Hybern, and yet at the end of the day she still finds herself dissatisfied, lacking something she doesn’t want to name. 

He is watching her from the edge of the kitchen while she takes up all the space at the center. She holds her glass at an angle, letting its bottom edges roll over the marble countertop as she watches the liquid swirl, leaving patterns along the sides. 

“Stop hovering, Cassian,” she finally says. He bites back a sigh. “It’s midnight. What do you want.” Her voice is so flat that the question has become a statement. 

“Well, I wanted a drink of water. But why don’t you tell me, Nesta, why you are here, in the middle of the night. Why aren’t you home?” 

To his surprise she responds not with a scoff or a pursing of her lips, but with frankness. 

“In the middle of the night, when I wake up, I hear Elain screaming. It has been…” she clears her throat. “I can’t get the sound out of my head.” 

She pushes the bottle across the counter towards him. He moves towards her to take it, keeping a wary eye on her. He pours himself a drink and sits at the stool opposite her. It isn’t the kind of thing he would have chosen himself; this is likely Azriel’s bottle, but Cassian figures he can replace it. He takes a drink, the spice and burn coating his throat in a not unpleasant manner. 

“She seems ok, doesn’t she? Elain is adjusting, I think. But I…” she trails off, her gaze never leaving her glass. She finishes the last of it before pouring herself another. “She tells me she is fine. How can she be? Feyre is. Feyre is always fine.” 

“Elain is doing well,” he replies. He pauses a moment before he adds, “She doesn’t blame you. No one does.” 

“Well, that wasn’t my question, was it,” she says sarcastically. “Do you blame yourself? Because you should.” She says the last words with the same dead tone she had begun speaking with. 

“Yes,” he says quietly. “I made you a promise. I didn’t uphold my end. It’s quite simple.” 

“Cassian.” Something tightens in his chest at hearing her say his name. A minute passes before she continues to speak again. “Once, before our mother died, before we lost everything we had, my father promised me something. Do you want to know what he promised me?” 

He nods at her. 

“He said that nightmares aren’t real. He said that they are our fears, the things we don’t want to happen. That we have to imagine them at night so they don’t take form during the day. That if I just remembered that the horrible things happening in my nightmares were never true, then I didn’t need to be afraid of them.” She drinks the rest of the bourbon in her glass in a quick swallow, tilting her head to force the burning liquid down her throat. 

“He was wrong,” she finishes. Her hand shakes as she reaches to pour herself another, but he covers her hand in his, taking the bottle from her. Pulling her glass towards himself, he makes her another drink, sliding the glass across the counter towards her. 

“Promises only count if someone means them. If they aren’t full of shit the minute the words come out of their mouths. You are not full of shit, Cassian.” She sighs, finishing her drink in another swallow. 

He would make a sign to her, to tell her he understands, but holds himself back, watching to see what she will say next. He nurses his drink in silence with her, considering her words. 

Looking up at him, Nesta wraps her hands around her glass. If she lets it go she will grab his hand, jump over that counter, finally quit ignoring the bond she feels at her core, leading her to him. The thread has steadily become heavy, cumbersome, until she thinks she will go mad from its persistent throbbing reminder. There are things she wants to say, words that live on the tip of her tongue, and when he is around she feels them dangerously close to coming loose and betraying her. She decides that tonight is not the night. One day, she will tell him what she wants. But it won’t be now. Not when she is so close to breaking and she isn’t sure if he can put her back together. If she wants him to. 

She moves to stand too quickly and the bottle tips, moments away from falling and shattering. She waits to watch it fall, but before she knows he is there Cassian has moved next to her to grab it, afraid the glass will splinter and cut her. It lands in his hand with a soft clinking sound before he sets it upright on the counter. 

They are pressed together now and her hands go to his chest, steadying herself between him and the counter that is behind her. “Is this what you want,” she asks. The teasing note of the words rings false in his ears, the truth of what she is saying and what she wants just below the surface. He grabs her arm to steady her. 

“Nesta, did you drink all of that?” He looks again at the bottle, hoping that its half-empty state is not entirely because of her. 

“No. You walked in on my first drink.” She looks up at him and he finally sees a hint of sincerity beneath her nearly expressionless face. What he finds there looks something like pain mingled with trust. Her shield is cracking and he will be damned if he does anything to make her hide from him right now. 

“Why did you come here?” He grasps her shoulders, unsure if he will pull her closer. 

She feels herself begin to speak before she is aware she has made the decision. “I wanted to see you. To talk to you. I’ve been… I have been having nightmares. And they are real. But so are you.” She searches his face, dragging the tips of her fingers across his jaw. “I don’t know what I want, Cassian. I’m not sure if I want you, or this, or why I’m even telling you this.” She forces her mouth closed, grateful that she hasn’t continued telling him her thoughts. _I want to understand why it feels like you can break me, even while I wonder if you are the only one who can put me back together._

“Do you want me to take you home,” he asks, his breath a shuddering in his chest. She shakes her head and begins to lean into him. A slight flush has made its way up her neck, and he tries not to stare at the way the fabric of her nightgown moves on her. “We can sit and talk, if you want. I have a fire going in my room.” He blanches and tries to explain himself when she cuts in. 

“Yes. Let’s sit.” 

She lets him take her hand from his chest, leading her to his room. He walks in front of her, heart pounding. When they reach his room he gestures to a large, well-worn chair, taking a smaller wooden one himself. Nesta curls her legs under herself, her small form sinking into the cushions. Resting her head on the arm of the chair, she looks at him. He returns her gaze, and they sit like this, taking the measure of each other. 

“What do you want to talk about,” he asks finally. 

“Tell me… tell me something true,” she replies. The soft and steady tones of his voice take over and she closes her eyes to listen, to learn about him. When he knows that she has fallen asleep, he gathers her in his arms and lays her in his bed, covering her with a blanket. He brushes her hair from her face, watching the furrows disappear and the severe angles of her eyebrows relax. He wishes that he could keep her like this. Not for himself, but for her. 

He takes her former place in the chair by the fire, watching her sleep through the rest of the night, barely stirring. While she rests, he makes another promise to himself, to her, and this is one he intends to keep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've never written Nesta or Cassian before, so I'd love to hear what you think!


	10. Marry me - moriel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I think this prompt speaks for itself: "Marry me"

Comfortable silence reigned in the room as Mor woke up quietly, naturally. Her senses slowly came to her, reminding her of the warmth she was surrounded by. A heavy blanket was over the lower half of her body, while her upper half was covered in Azriel’s strong, muscle-corded arms that he had wrapped haphazardly around her waist. Nuzzling her nose into his neck, she took in his scent, the familiar leather and rain mingling with the starch of the linens they were surrounded by. 

She opened her eyes into narrow slits, not widening them fully until she could see that it was still dawn and the light coming through their windows was soft, diffused by the gauzy curtains. She smiled and stretched her legs, the only part of her body she was safe to move without waking him. Morrigan was facing Azriel, and she brushed away a stray hair that had fallen over his forehead and threatened to bother his eyes. She shifted her body slightly until she was pressed against him, gently moving one leg until it was draped over his hips in the same way his arms were wrapped around her. 

Leaning forward slightly, separated by inches, she placed a small kiss on his cheek. She would lay still and let him sleep, but she wanted to see the familiar warm hazel of his eyes on her, hear his voice in her ear, and continue what they had been doing before they fell asleep wrapped in each other. 

She lifted herself on one elbow carefully, leaning over him to whisper in his ear. “Az… Azriel…” She gently flicked the tip of his nose. When she didn’t get a response, she kissed his cheek again, repeating his name. 

His breathing changed, indicating that he had woken, but he refused to open his eyes. “Morrigan. What time is it?” 

“Early…” she replied coyly. “Wake up now, please.” She squeezed his hips with the leg she had wrapped around him and leaned her body into him suggestively. They were both still naked, a state they usually found themselves sleeping in. Especially when they had the luxury of time and privacy. 

“I’m awake, Morrigan,” he replied, opening his eyes to look at her before nuzzling her with his nose. He pulled her into him, squeezing so hard she began to laugh and smacked his arm to release her. When he gave her room to breath, she leaned over him to give him a small kiss. 

This trip into the mountains had been decided on months ago, when they realized that they had both the time and an excuse; work didn’t often take them in the same direction, but when it did, Azriel tended to ensure that they made the most of it. The cabin that he had found in the Winter Court was isolated, and while Mor said that all she needed was a bed, he made sure to find a place with a large, deep tub, along with a kitchen big enough for him to make her breakfast every morning. 

They had been together for decades, and trips like this were far too infrequent. Life in Velaris had developed a familiar rhythm of work and play, spending time with their friends and their friends’ children. They had been inseparable since the events with the King of Hybern. Or, more inseparable than they had been; what had been a careful game of loving one another while never crossing a line had quickly become real when they both realized what they had to lose, if they didn’t make a choice. 

“Good morning,” she said sweetly. 

“Good morning,” he replied. He wrapped his hands in her hair, pulling her closer to return her kiss. He closed his eyes again, breathing her in deeply and savoring the faint scent of honey that came from her hair. Mor moaned into his mouth, her leg tightening around him again to bring their hips together. He moved a thigh between her legs and a wave of lust went through her. His fingertips brushed down her back until he reached her rear and he pulled her harder into him, eliminating any space between their bodies. 

This - this was what they had waited for. This was what made all the days and months and years apart from each other worth it. Waking up like this, wrapped in one another, free to touch and taste and feel… Azriel made a satisfied sound at her arousal and was moving to cover her body with his own when her stomach growled. They both laughed, pulling away from each other reluctantly. 

“What would you like to eat?” he asked, knowing that her empty stomach was perhaps more of a motivating factor in waking him than she would admit. He ran a hand down her arm, knowing they had plenty of time to continue where they had left off. 

“I would like waffles, please.” She gave him the smile she used when she was trying to get what she wanted. She knew it wasn’t necessary, but she did it anyway. He would give her whatever she asked for, especially in times like this, when it was just the two of them and nothing but the peaceful sounds of a breeze and nature outside their door. 

He took in her smile and it made his stomach twist in a familiar, pleasant manner. Yes, he would do what she asked, and they both knew the smile was for a different reason, other than to get her way. Words passed between them in that look, though neither of them could have described what they meant. Much of their communication looked like this; they had grown used to the habit of speaking without words in front of their friends, and caught themselves having entire conversations in this manner, even when they were alone. 

“As you wish,” he answered. Rolling out from under her, Az stood and pulled on pants while Mor admired him. She sighed, knowing that her request meant that he had to get up, and wishing she could have had it both ways. 

When he padded into the kitchen, she forced herself out of bed and followed, throwing on a plush robe. Grabbing a book on her way out, she found a chair at the dining table and curled into it, reading while Az made them breakfast. They didn’t speak. There was little need to, at this point, when they had already found everything they needed in these simple acts - waking together, even being in the same room, free to do as they pleased, was something they never took for granted. And they didn’t need to prove anything, impress each other. They had seen each other at their worst, at their lowest, and managed to find each other, somehow. 

Azriel brought over the first butter-and-syrup covered waffle on a plate, to appease Morrigan’s appetite while he continued cooking the eggs and bacon. She made a small sound in thanks before eating it absently while immersed in her book. This was another part of their unspoken ritual - the first waffle (or pancake, or crêpe) always went to her, to sooth the hungry beast she would be until Az had finished cooking. 

Outside snow was falling softly, making the light of morning perhaps a bit grayer than it would have ordinarily seemed. From her spot near the window, Mor was cast in a soft glow, a contrast in warmth compared the the blanket of fresh snow outside. He would do this every morning, if it were possible. Seeing her there, content, comfortable, beautiful - these were things he couldn’t have quite imagined when they first met. If he’d had any idea that this was a possibility, he would have fought harder, earlier, to have her. For her to have him. It had been a long, hard road for them to find their way to each other, but compared to their beginnings, this quiet morning was more than he thought he ever could have asked for. 

He finished cooking their breakfast and brought the food to the table while Mor stood without comment to grab the plates and silverware. They settled into their seats and while they ate she told him about her book, what she felt about the characters and the writing. He nodded occasionally, the smooth sound of her voice contributing to the calm of the morning. When they finished they stood and went to the sink together, cleaning the kitchen as a well-orchestrated, familiar habit. 

Azriel leaned against the counter when they were done. “What now, Morrigan?” This was one of their last days at the cabin, but he had a feeling they wouldn’t leave it again until it was time to return home. She strode up to him and stood on her toes, pulling him down to her. 

“I want to finish my book,” she said after placing a kiss on his cheek. “In bed. Then… we’ll see. But you’re coming with me.” Grinning at him, she took his hand to lead him back into the disarray that the bed had become. 

She indicated for him to take his place next to her, waiting until he settled in before she tucked herself into his body. Opening her book, she settled down into him comfortably. Azriel held her loosely, listening to the sounds coming in from outside, the calm silence that the weather created, while she read. When he knew they would be at the Winter Court he had been pleased. The idea of a cozy cabin surrounded by snow, his Morrigan warm and safe inside with him… 

He stroked her hair, knowing it might put her to sleep, but also that it would occasionally cause a shiver of pleasure to run through her. The way her body reacted to his attention was an endless source of delight. He watched her shift, tuck her feet under his legs to keep warm, lean her head into his touch. He began to run his hands over her neck, massaging muscles that had not been tense in some time. 

After a while, she spoke. “Az. What are you doing?” She felt him shrug underneath her. Turning to look him in the face, she marked her place in the book and set it in her lap. “I think you know exactly what you’re doing,” she continued in a low voice. 

“Perhaps.” His eyes searched hers, to see what he would find there. As he suspected, her pupils had widened, her lips parted slightly, and her breath had quickened. He took the book from her lap and laid it on the nightstand, careful to save her spot. Mor twisted her body to face him and he took her face in his hands, kissing her until he had to pull away for breath. Their chests were rising and falling together, hand suddenly not touching enough skin. He pushed her robe apart, running his hands over her breasts, her ribs, feeling the curve of her waist, the swell of her hips. 

“Azriel… I wish we didn’t have to go back,” she said, her voice strained beneath pleasure and love. “I wish we never had to leave this bed or this place or each other…” She trailed off and closed her eyes, sinking into the feeling of his lips on her skin as he moved them in a trail away from her mouth, down towards where she needed him. He shifted his weight over her until her back was pressed against the bed, helping her slide her arms out of the sleeves of the robe. 

He pressed his lips into her neck, kissing until his mouth was hovering near her ear. “Marry me,” he whispered, in a voice so low she wasn’t sure if she had heard him. The gentle motion of her fingertips on his arm halted. She pulled her head back from him slightly, searching his expression. He looked back at her with frankness and hope, and not a small amount of trepidation. 

“Are you…” she started to say. “Azriel.” He leaned down towards her, covering her lips with his own, shifting his weight back over her until all she knew was his body, the warmth of him. 

“Marry me, Morrigan,” he repeated, dragging his mouth along her skin as if he could devour her whole, his heat burning her from within until she felt they would be nothing but charred ash, remnants of who they had been before, when they had been alone and cold and empty but for longing. 

She nodded, swallowing, her chin bumping against the top of his head. Looking back up at her, he waited. 

“Yes. Azriel. Yes.” He surged back up to her, taking her face in his hands and kissing her breathless again before he began to whisper her name into her skin, his quiet devotion becoming vocal as he thought of all the ways he would worship her and make her call his name. 

Mor grabbed his arm, forcing him to look back at her. “Az?” She paused, waiting for her unasked questions to make their way to him, for him to understand what it was she needed to hear. 

“We can do it before we get back. We have time,” he said. 

She absorbed his words quietly. This wasn’t exactly the question she had in mind, but she knew what he was trying to tell her. “Everyone might be mad. That we didn’t tell them. I don’t know if we should do it like that,” she replied, hesitating. 

“To hell with them,” he said. “They’ll get over it.” 

She laughed, her body shaking as she took in his words. “‘They’ll get over it’? Who is this gorgeous, carefree stranger in my bed?” 

“I learned it from you,” he said, splaying his fingers over her stomach before moving them down, agonizingly slow, until he found her center, causing her to gasp. As he stroked her he looked into her eyes and all the reassurance she needed was there; that he had meant every word, that he would marry her in a moment, that he wanted her enough to push aside any hesitation or doubt that might have remained in his mind. 

She grabbed his wrist, forcing him to stop. “Azriel. I love you.” 

“I love you, too, Morrigan.” 

There was nothing new in this revelation; they had said these words to each other hundreds of times before, thousands, even. And in a thousand different ways they had shown each other proof of this. This marriage was yet one more way for Azriel to show Morrigan that he had made a choice, one more way of showing her that he would not go back on his decision to be with her. 

She released his hand, letting him continue to explore her body in ways that had become second nature, yet felt new now, imbued with a permanence that left her speechless. When she came it was with the knowledge that their struggles had been worth it, that they had healed together, and now they would grow together, too. He picked her up from the bed and carried her to the large bathtub. She couldn’t stop herself from kissing him, reaching for him, touching him, even as he set her down to run the hot water. 

“So… before we get back?” she asked. An amused grin hid just beneath his expression, one that a stranger or even a friend might have missed, but Mor caught and understood it as easily as if he had spoken. “Alright. Tomorrow, then.” She tilted her head at him and he reached a hand out to her, helping her ease into the steaming water. 

When he joined her he pulled her into his lap, pushing her already-wet hair from her neck. “Since the beginning. Until the end,” he said, echoing a phrase she had spoken to him once, a long time ago. 

“Since the beginning. Until the end,” she repeated.


	11. Feyre's nightmare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feyre wakes up from a nightmare and has a panic attack. Rhys is there to help her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Post-ACOWAR. This one got… dark. Trigger warnings for anxiety and suicidal ideation.
> 
> Prompt was "Do things that make you happy within the confines of the legal system”

Feyre had gotten up in the middle of the night, her stomach churning, a wave of nausea and terror gripping her. Though she had just woken her heart was racing, pounding as if she had been sprinting, and she wanted nothing more than for her heart to stop in her chest, to just leave her in peace and… 

And now she was sitting in the bathroom, hunched over the toilet, her knees pressing uncomfortably on the cold tile as she tried to calm herself, tried to find some center or place within herself that the memories couldn’t touch. This place didn’t exist, it might never exist, but she searched all the same, because if she stopped searching… 

The alternative was giving up. She had been through so much, fought so hard, and she thought she had won. That they all had won. And yet on these nights her body betrayed her, finding a way to remind her of how it had felt to live every day wondering if she deserved to live, if she hadn’t thrown away the best parts of her… for him. There was a deep hole that might always remain, a hole where her innocence had been. And she could go weeks, months, sometimes years without being reminded of when she had felt like her life was an abyss, threatening to swallow her entire. 

Her fingers scrapped the grout in between the tiles, feeling the rough lines, pulling up white powder beneath her fingernails until she forced herself to stop, trying to retain enough control to keep herself from drawing blood. A nail splintered, bending back before cracking. 

Rhys had immediately followed her when she bolted out of their bed, his steps soft and un-intrusive behind her. When she had pushed the hair back from her shoulders he had taken it from her, holding it as she retched, waiting for her body to still before laying another hand on her. 

The sobs came unbidden. What she felt was a mere echo, a memory of a feeling, but it rocked her all the same. Her breathing was uneven, her body shuddering as she tried to regain control of it. Of herself. On nights like this, she wondered if it would ever be possible. If she would ever feel normal again. 

Rhys placed a hand on her lower back when she sat back on her heels, the slight pressure giving her a spot to concentrate on, a steadiness in what had quickly became a world lacking in all certainty. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand before he handed her a cloth. She held it to her face. Her breath pushed it out from her, pulled it back in, and she watched it, detached, wondering at the fact that she was there to push air in and out of her lungs. 

“How are you?” he asked. This was an unfortunately familiar situation, even though it had been years. Years of healing together and sometimes he felt as if neither of them would be left in peace, that neither of them would be able to leave the past well enough behind them. 

“What am I going to do, Rhys? What if this never stops? I can’t do this, I can’t live like this, I can’t…” her voice dissolves into a whisper, her head shaking as tears fell to the floor, not bothering to run down her cheeks, as if even that was more effort than her body could expend at the moment. 

“Do things that make you happy within the confines of the legal system, Feyre darling. That is my motto,” he said softly, the beginnings of a smile trying to show on his face. For him as much as her this was a waiting game, to see how long it would take for the retching, the shaking, the sobbing to pass. He could hear her heart in her chest, desperate and frightened. 

She made a small sound that nearly passed for a laugh. Her stomach was still in knots, the pounding of her heart and need to gasp for air still present. It felt like they would never leave her be; her past was never going to far enough away when her body refused to let her forget those suffocating months, the blood on her hands. 

She looked down at her hands, her free one still tracing the space between the tiles. A slight smear of blood had been left and she stared at it, the contrast slight in the dim of their bathroom. The lights were still off; the terror was never caused by night, but by sleep, and dreams. They had discovered that Feyre would recover quicker with less stimulation, enveloped in the calming dark. 

When she stood it was on shaky legs and Rhys held her arm until she could steady herself. Nodding at him, he released her and she made her way slowly, tentatively, back to their bed. She shuffled across the floor, unsure if it had well and truly passed. Step by step, she progressed, until she knew that she had made it through, her head a bit higher, her shoulders a bit straighter with every foot closer she came. 

Collapsing onto the bed, Feyre turned to her side so that Rhys could wrap his arms around her. He kissed the back of her neck before settling against her. Their scents had long ago mingled, but sometimes she would be able to identify something that was uniquely _him_ , and she searched for it now, clinging to this piece of him that she knew, unflinchingly, would never change. That he would be there for her; that she would be there for him; that no matter how many times she needed him to follow her out of bed, he would do so without question or hesitation. 

She would begin the next part of the process, now. Waiting to see if she would sleep, how long she would have to wait before her body and her mind would let her rest. Her heart still pounded but was slowing, and she hoped that maybe, soon enough, she wouldn’t resent the sound and feel of it in her chest. That she wouldn’t wake up wishing that she hadn’t.


	12. Shadows - moriel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on this request: Moriel fic. Mor + Az long distance seperated. Az gives Mor a 'handjob' sort of thing with his shadow manipulation powers.
> 
> ***This chapter UPDATED and expanded 3/23/17 - some bondage added, clearly very NSFW.

Mor was sitting down to dinner with Rhysand, Feyre, Amren, and Cassian when she felt something brush up against her thigh. 

Rhys had been speaking, something about the Hewn City and the next time they needed to go. She nodded, only half listening. She glanced down at her lap, half expecting to see Azriel’s hand there. She wasn’t sure what she had felt; if Az hadn’t been out of town, she would have blamed him or his shadows. But he wasn’t supposed to be back for another week. 

He had been gone far too long, and while they still communicated almost constantly through his shadows - when they weren’t working, at least - they were still new to the mating bond, meaning the “frenzy”, as Feyre had described it to her, was still in full effect. Mor frequently had her hand between her legs before sleep, counting down the minutes until Az would be back. 

Rhys continued talking, joined by the others. When the topic turned to something unrelated to her, she nearly breathed a sigh of relief. Whatever she had felt against her leg, she was far too on edge to be polite company. 

She picked up her fork, only to nearly drop it when she felt the same sensation repeat itself more forcefully. She would have looked under the table if it wouldn’t raise everyone’s suspicions. Az had a habit of playing with her like this, making her squirm. Maybe he was coming back early, maybe he was nearby… She reached out to him, knowing her thoughts would be communicated back to him. 

_Az?_ A tendril of shadow curled around her ear. It was so slight that no one would see it unless they were looking, and her friends were thankfully preoccupied with each other. 

_Yes, Morrigan?_

What she now knew was another tendril of shadow made its way underneath the fabric of her dress and was snaking its way up her bare leg. It tiptoed up her skin, pausing behind her knees, stroking her inner thighs. She swallowed. 

_Azriel. What are you doing?_

_Nothing you won’t enjoy…_

Mor closed her eyes briefly as the shadows took on a thicker, more solid form. She could practically feel his hands between her legs and she sent the sensation to him. She was rewarded with a sound of contentment. 

Mor spread her thighs slightly, trying to make the movement look natural to everyone seated at the table. If she hadn’t been so damned turned on already, she might have had the presence of mind to at least blush. The shadow continued to stroke her inner thigh, moving up, closer, and closer, until it finally brushed up against her panties, between her legs. A flick of pressure was all it took for them to slide the fabric aside and slip into her folds. 

She knew she was wet, but even if she hadn’t been the shadows would have been able to move freely along her skin. They pressed against her clit, moving in circles and sliding along her until they nearly entered her. 

Mor tried to stifle her gasp, but failed. Her hips bucked up slightly in spite of herself and her thighs spread wider, causing her to slump down in her seat almost imperceptibly. 

“Mor, are you ok?” Rhys looked at her with concern. She was flushed and knew he’d be able to smell her arousal if she wasn’t careful. They’d all know very, very soon what was happening under their dinner table. 

“Of course,” she bit out. She shoved a forkful of food in her mouth. 

_Damnit Az, I’m at dinner._

_I know, Morrigan._

_With our friends. My cousin._

A moan escaped her as one of the shadows thrust up into her, shooting fire into her core. It was joined by another tendril until she was nearly filled. When they began moving, pumping into her, she bit her lip and braced her hands on the table. Her hips rocked against her will, trying to help herself along. She was so close already, damn him, all it would take would be a bit more... if she could just get him to go a bit faster... 

Amren looked over at her, set her elbows up on the table, held her chin in her hands, and grinned at her. 

Mor stood up with a start, nearly disturbing her plate. 

“Are you sure you’re ok?” Rhys insisted. Amren continued to grin, her chin resting on her palms. 

“Yes, I think I just… I just need to go lie down. I’ll see you all tomorrow.” Throwing her napkin on the table she left before anyone else could say a word, trying to walk normally. As if she weren’t ready to be fucked right there, as if she weren’t trying to press her thighs together to relieve the tension Az had built in her. When she got to the hallway she winnowed to her bedroom and quickly threw off her dress and panties. 

She waited. 

Nothing. 

_Azriel, if you don’t finish what you started, so help me…_

A dark chuckle. 

With a sigh of relief, she reclined back in their bed. 

_Do your worst..._

Mor waited, sighing in relief when she saw tendrils making their way up the side of the bed, closer to her bare skin. She spread her legs slightly and was… confused when they refused to return to their former position buried in her cunt. 

Instead, they crawled up towards her head, wrapping around her wrists until they were bound at her sides. 

Mor’s heart began racing again, waiting to see what Azriel had in mind. 

Another set of tendrils made its way up from the foot of her bed and wrapped themselves around her ankles, keeping her legs firmly spread apart. She whimpered, trying to pull her thighs together now that she couldn’t, wanting to create the pressure she needed. 

There was nothing but silence now, and she knew that he was enjoying this. Enjoying watching her squirm. And she knew he was going to make her wait for it. 

She shifted her legs on the bed, only able to bend them slightly. Looking up at the ceiling, she tried to calm herself, if only so she didn’t cry out and alert the neighbors. 

Shadows began to make their way over her, caressing, brushing against her, circling around her peaked nipples and contracting, running along her neck, down to her thighs again, until they were suddenly inside of her. 

She gasped at the sudden thrust, the way that they spread to stretch and fill her as if it were her mate’s cock, and - fuck - no one was touching her, but she was already close to shattering. 

Suddenly she was empty, the shadows having retreated. She whined, looking down until they rushed back into her, thrusting hard and deep and rocking her on the bed and she screamed out. 

She turned her head and groaned into her pillow. _Az, I need you here, I need you to fuck me…_

Another tendril caressed her cheek. _Shhhh…._

The thrusts became harder and deeper, making sure to hit just where she needed while others circled her clit, ran lovingly over her breasts. 

She was about to come, she was so close and just needed to clench her thighs around something, to feel his hips or his head or his thigh between her legs, but there was nothing except for those damned shadows pounding into her… she reached her climax and shattered, waves of pleasure rolling over her until she screamed his name as if he were there. 

They kept going, kept pumping roughly inside of her and Mor was flipped on her stomach and they fucked her that way, from behind. She was still coming down from the first orgasm when she felt another one approaching, her clit so sensitive and her legs beginning to quiver. Her hands were bound above her head now, her thighs spread and she still tried to clench them, to feel something between them. 

_Come, Mor… I want you to come again for me._

She came again as if on command, muffling the sound of her cries into the blanket, but it kept going, kept rubbing her clit and moving in her and she moaned, this time as much from the overwhelming sensation of heading towards her third orgasm as anything else. She wished he was here, she wished the could have his cock between her legs, or in her mouth, anything to give her the taste and feel of him instead of his shadows. 

After she came for the third time the shadows gently retreated, releasing her wrists and ankles but still remaining there in the room. She pushed herself up on shaky arms to lie on her back, her breathing labored. 

_Fuck, Az, what was that?_

_Did you enjoy yourself?_

Mor nodded and brushed her hair from her forehead. She reached an arm across the bed, wishing that it weren’t empty. She whimpered quietly, wanting nothing more than to wrap herself in his arms and fall asleep to the sound of his breathing. 

_Soon, Morrigan._

She turned on her side, trying to forget the look Amren had given her, and trying to think of ways to pay Azriel back when he returned.


	13. Elucien - I can't be in love with you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elain comes to talk to Lucien about their recently-discovered mating bond and finds him less receptive than she anticipated.

A knock comes at his door, and Lucien closes his eye momentarily. Setting his pen down on his desk he leans back, his jaw clenching slightly. He knows who is on the other side of the wood paneling. He knows what she wants. And he knows he can’t give it to her. 

Lucien is only here at the Night Court temporarily. He is still assembling his own court and acts as his own emissary, not yet trusting anyone else to carry out even the simplest of tasks. He was thrust into this position of High Lord, and while Rhys has been more than welcoming and patient, he has discovered that being High Lord does not automatically command respect. 

Nor does it automatically sort out his personal life, as it were. 

Lucien and Elain have only seen each other a few times since she was Made, since the war began, and always in the company of her family. Mor took her and Nesta, and the rage he felt at losing his mate was quickly tempered by the realization that he didn’t want this. He hadn’t asked for it, and in fact it made him angry. He had been waiting for the bond to snap into place before, and now it was being thrust upon him without expectation. He doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry that this timid girl is somehow his equal. 

“Come in.” His voice comes out strong, confident, and he wonders at it. 

The door makes hardly a sound as Elain walks in. She waits to close it behind her until he gives her a small nod, affording them a small amount of privacy. Her hands are folded neatly in front of her. Her skirts rustle slightly even after she has stopped moving, making her presence in the room louder, bigger than she wants. She waits by the door. 

Lucien gestures to a chair and she moves towards it, the grace that her new body should have been granted stunted by uncertainty. She stops in front of the chair and gives a slight curtsy before sitting, crossing her ankles and folding her hands in her lap. 

Her posture is perfect, practiced, what he would expect from any other courtier. But not her. It recalls to mind those moments before he realized she was his mate. The way her body had folded, the way the sodden fabric had clung to her. The frailty of her form hadn’t changed right away. She transformed into this woman before him over time. But then, in those moments before, when she was still human, and then when she had been Made, he had unwittingly memorized the curve of her spine as she sobbed, wondered at how her frail arms had been able to hold her up from the floor. 

And now she is sitting in front of him stiffly, if politely. As he would expect any other stranger to sit. There is no hint of that girl here, that frailty. He wonders how much work this is for her. 

For his part, Lucien looks tired. Nearly haggard. He had some fight in him before, when she saw him at the Cauldron. He worked for her then, he was full of indignation. But when he realized she was his mate it had stopped. His hands had fallen to his sides. The warmth of his coat still enveloped her but she knew something had changed in that moment. She didn’t know what it was until Feyre told her about the woman his father had killed. 

Now he looks resigned. This is not what he wanted, she knows. Somehow, gaining power his family had never expected him to have, it has become a burden. She wonders how much more of this he can handle. 

“Good afternoon, Lucien.” Her voice comes out small, in direct proportion to how much she wants to be here, having this conversation with him. Saying his name out loud is difficult. She had not considered the shape her lips would make to accommodate the sounds, the way her tongue touches the space just behind her teeth. His name echoes through her head routinely, and now it is associated with a new sort of physicality, the liquid and the vowels shifting together in harmony that somehow causes the throbbing in her chest to intensify. 

“Good afternoon, Elain.” Her name coming from his mouth causes something in her chest to leap, and she wishes she could ask him to stop saying it. 

A beat. They have never been alone together. 

“How are you today?” she asks, not knowing how else to start. 

“Fine.” He inclines his head towards the desk, the papers stacked in neat piles. “This comes with rather more paperwork than I expected.” 

She smiles politely. “Of course. It must be difficult.” 

“And you, Elain?” 

“I am well. Thank you for asking. I have come to see how you are faring. To see if there is anything that I or my sister can do to help you.” Her fingers shift slightly in her lap and she picks at her nails, keeping her eyes on Lucien. 

“I am doing quite well. I don’t think I’ll need your assistance. Unless you want to try your hand at forgery for a few hundred documents that require my signature. Or perhaps you would like to help me figure out how to ensure that the crops grow despite the interruption to Calanmai.” 

Elain blinks. Feyre had told her about Calanmai, about what it meant to the Spring Court. The war had disturbed many things, making a return to anything like normal feel impossible. They are all trying to adjust to new circumstances, though that is more difficult for some than others. 

And he is being facetious, not expecting her to take him up on his offers. He would not be so exposed as to tell her what he needs from her now. To explain that while the thread binding them makes him want her, his soul is crying out for quiet. 

“Let me tell you why I’m really here, Lucien. Since you seem keen on getting to the point.” 

“Please, do.” 

“I remember what you said, before Mor took me. I feel it. Every day I feel it pulling me towards you. And I don’t understand it. I need you to help me understand it. How do I make it stop?” 

It is Lucien’s turn to pause. His eyes narrow at this young woman seated in his office, this girl. Before she turned, in the few moments he knew her, he thought she was beautiful. Now he can only see that in the way her ankles shift, the way she picks at her fingers. The stiff arch of her back and the coolness in her tone are forced, and it makes him want to disturb her. To find the woman he knows is underneath. 

“There isn’t a way to make it stop. I wish there were.” 

“That’s it? There is nothing to do? You don’t want… you don’t want to try? To get to know me? To find out what you want?” 

“Has no one explained this to you? It’s all instinct, Elain.” She flinches again at the sound of her name. “It’s not as if I saw you and fell in love. Isn’t that what you expected? For this miracle to have found us and then everything is right? I can tell you that it surely doesn’t work that way. Your sister and Rhys, they were lucky. They had to work for it. And even they were lucky.” 

She takes a moment to formulate her next words, knowing that she only has this one chance. He will return to the Spring Court, and she will stay in the Night Court, and the unbearable pull between them might remain. They have a clear, if difficult, decision to make. 

“You don’t understand, Lucien. I thought that for you, it was simple. One minute you were alone, and grieving. The next you found your mate. I suppose I thought it all fell into place for you.” She pauses, trying to collect her thoughts. 

She continues. “When I was Made, I lost a life. I lost a future. One that I wanted more than anything. There were going to be children, and grandchildren, and with him. It was all quite certain.” 

Lucien draws in breath at the mention that there had been someone else. He knew, of course. In the weeks after Feyre had returned to the Spring Court, she had told him, had warned him not to get his hopes up. What she hadn’t realized was his relief. That the instinct he had to find, to take, to claim this girl, was a betrayal of the woman he loved before. And that’s what it was, of course. It was instinct that made him want to stride over to her, to take her face in his hands and kiss the pink of her cheeks, to slide his hands up her skirts, past her calves to grasp her knees, the paleness of those legs already familiar to him. 

This was instinct. And nothing else. 

“I thought I knew what my future was going to be. That is over. I have accepted it. I can’t see him again. I know that. And it may take a while, but I am willing to figure this out. If you are.” 

“I can’t be in love with you, Elain.” 

Her jaw clenches. She expected him to resist. She expected him to hate the human girl he had been mated to. Of course if humans mistrust and despise anyone who lives in Prythian, surely the reverse is true. And she still is, in the ways that matter, human. What Elain had not counted on was her own devastation at hearing him declare his resistance. And not only that; it is downright refusal. 

“Do you know what my brothers and father did, before? To her?” He won’t say her name. “They murdered her in front of me. And before they did that, they…” He stands and places his fists on his desk, holding himself up. 

“I don’t plan on watching that happen again. When I saw you there at the Cauldron, I thought I wanted to know you. But I don’t. Not right now.” Lucien tries to soften the blow, to keep that expression from her face. He wonders at how he can anticipate exactly the way her jaw will twitch, the slight downturned angle of her lips. The narrowing of the space between her eyebrows. The clouding of her expression, once complete, matches his expectations. He knew it would be this way. He doesn’t want it; it simply is. 

Elain has been sending him her thoughts for weeks. He warned her, tried to tell her to be more guarded. She is working with Rhysand and Feyre, but something blocks her progress. He sees now that she wants this, that he read her emotions and impulses correctly. The stiff posture, the folded hands, it is all an effort to steady herself. He wishes he didn’t recognize it and understand her, the difference between the way she carries herself and what she wants. 

She feels it then, a slight, steady throb tied to this thing in her chest. She tries to shut it off, to push it back towards him, but she can’t. She feels a strange combination of regret and certainty, determination that this will be best for both of them. She wants to fight it, to tell him that she is here, that she will wait. But he isn’t ready. 

Elain came here to tell him she had broken ties once and for all. But the one tie she had to him is… fraying, nearly severed, and he wants it that way. 

“Why… why would the Cauldron do this? Why would it pair us?” Elain shrugs uselessly, her hands losing their mooring in her lap. She returns them quickly in front of her, crossed, protected, guarded. 

“We don’t need to understand. Rhys’ parents, they were ill-matched. In the ways that matter for a happy marriage, at least. I don’t suppose you want that?” 

She shakes her head, looking down. 

“I’m sorry, Elain. I need to finish my work here. Will I see you at dinner?” 

He stands and walks to the door, opening it to hold it open for her to leave. Elain stands automatically, her need for propriety instinctual. 

“I understand.” She gives another small curtsy, this one somehow even more perfunctory and stunted than before. 

She pauses in the doorway, now closer to him than she has been all afternoon. Her heart leaps at the proximity, the steady pulse in her chest feeling more right than it has since she was Made, and she takes a chance. 

“Do you know what this is, Lucien?” He glances at her, but only for a moment. Elain takes his hand in hers, bringing it to her chest. She feels resistance, the tug of his muscles, pulling him back from her. 

She persists, wrapping her fingers more tightly around his. 

“I don’t know what it is. But I need to. I need you to help me understand. Please.” The last word comes out without a hint of guile and her shoulders have dropped, her free hand hanging at her side. 

Lucien shakes his head and he looks at the floor. His muscles loosen, allowing her to support the weight of his arm against her. 

“Tomorrow. Before you leave, I need you to come see me. You owe me this, I think. Whatever you may say. You are older and grew up in this world, but it’s new to me. And I can’t help but think there is a reason for this.” She clutches his hand closer to her heart, pressing it between her breasts. “I have lost everything I was. Please.” 

This is what he feels every day, when she sends her thoughts to him. A sense of urgency, passion, honesty. Combined with her presence in front of him, with the heat he can feel coming through the thin fabric of her dress, he feels himself losing control. This instinct is quickly becoming more than a reflex, and turning into a willful desire. This is the woman he expected to walk into his office. This is the woman he thinks could be his mate. 

Lucien finally looks up at her, his fingertips shifting against the lace at her chest. 

Nodding, he pulls his hand away. He steps back and she lowers her head once more before making her way down the hall, knowing that tomorrow, she will get the answers she needs. 


	14. Post hate sex - Nessian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the [ACOTAR kink meme](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1wMYSGFx5jhJWTb-QR9j3WgLmHwBXr394voPwS3Gb00M/edit):
> 
> Nessian; Post hate sex scene; Maybe some bickering and cuddling??? Because this is Nessian and they can never do one or the other.

Nesta rolled over to lie on her back, chest heaving, panting. This was… not going to happen again. Pleasure still coursed through her and she blinked through the haze of sex and sensation and – a hand reached out towards her. 

Cassian. 

She turned her head. Next to her on the floor he was lying in a similar state. Sweaty, breathing labored but becoming steady, and looking far too pleased with himself. He turned over on his side, propping his head up on his hand. 

“Nesta, sweetheart, was this what you meant by a workout? You can be blunt with me, you know. All you have to do is tell me if you really need a good fu-” 

Before he knew what was happening he was on his back again, the wind knocked out of him by a swift punch. He clutched his chest, trying to control the rush of air coming back into his lungs. It was a bit difficult, what with trying to keep her from realizing how stunned he was. 

“Sorry, Cass. I forget my own strength sometimes.” She straddled his chest, pinning him down. Grinning, she watched him regain control. Since she had been Made, had been given this strength, there were few things Nesta enjoyed more than proving she didn’t need it. She hadn’t needed it when she took him by surprise in her home, delivering a swift knee to his groin. And she didn’t need it now, when all she had to do was wait for a moment when Cassian was distracted by his own bravado. 

Cassian’s breathing again became steady and he glared at her, holding her thighs so she couldn’t stand. His hair was a mess and she reached down to run her fingers through it, rearranging the wild strands into some semblance of order. They watched each other silently, Cassian’s eyes traveling over the body he had recently traced with his mouth, Nesta’s looking at the old scars and dark skin she had come to know as well as her own. 

Nesta’s features softened momentarily, before she realized that Cassian’s gaze had come to rest on her face. She pursed her lips and made to stand. 

He flipped her over, pinning her underneath him. His wings twitched, nearly blocking out the sun coming in from his windows, and she tried to look away, to look at anything but him. 

“Cassian, what are you doing? I need to go.” He held her wrists over her head with one hand and reached down with the other, between her legs. She was still sensitive from the orgasms he had given her; he ran his fingers through the slick that was now a combination of both of them. Her back arched involuntarily and she wanted to reach up and stroke his wings. 

Damn him… She bit her tongue to stifle a moan, watching him bring his fingers to his mouth to taste her. Again. He had already done that once today, and before today as well, and she knew that she couldn’t do it again, he was insufferable, if only he would just let her go. 

“What’s the rush?” 

“You know what. I have to go. Elain is going to wonder where I’m at.” 

“Oh, I don’t think Elain is concerned with you right now. She and Lucien were making eyes at each other. I doubt they know what time of day it is.” He ran his hand along her jaw. “They are far too concerned with who will make the first move to worry about us.” 

Nesta closed her eyes against his warm breath, wishing she didn’t know his scent as well as she did. Wishing she weren’t able to tell the moment he entered a room, without looking. 

“Cassian. I need to go,” she said quietly. He released her wrists and rolled his weight off her. 

Nesta stood and began to gather her clothing. It was the middle of the day and she was standing naked in his room. This wasn’t the first time he had seen her like this. But it would definitely be the last. 

Her clothing had managed to scatter all over the room; her pants she found on the desk, her underwear still in them from when Cassian had pulled them off her in one motion. Her bra was beneath the bed, and her shirt… where was her shirt? 

She turned around to find Cassian holding it from the end of his fingers. “Looking for this? When you took it off,” he grinned, “ripped it off yourself, more like, you threw it on the nightstand.” 

She took her shirt from him and he watched her finish dressing with his arms crossed. Annoyingly naked, still. 

“Aren’t you going to get dressed?” 

“Why? This is my room. You know you don’t mind. In fact…” He sidled back up to her. “If you’d like, I could go for another round.” He ran a finger down her arm and she slapped it away. 

“Like hell,” she snapped. Nesta turned and began to walk to the door when she realized she hadn’t grabbed her shoes. But she couldn’t stop. She wouldn’t. 

“Nesta, sweetheart.” Shit. “I think you’ve forgotten something.” 

She turned slowly. 

“Tomorrow?” He cocked his head at her, arms still crossed. 

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Tomorrow what?” 

“Same time, same place?” 

“For training? Sure.” 

“Yeah, Nesta,” he grinned. “For training.” 

“Sounds like a plan.” She sauntered out of the room, leaving her shoes, and a reason to come back the next day.


	15. Feyre is a serial killer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yep, I turned Feyre into a serial killer.

When I lifted my hands, the words came echoing back to me. Tamlin had told me once not to feel bad for one moment about doing what brought me joy, and now I wondered if he had realized how literally I would take that advice. 

Of course he had no clue what he had unleashed on the Spring Court. What kind of woman he had taken as his fiancée, what kind of woman had come back from the Night Court. Neither he nor Rhys, in fact, knew what kind of woman they had taken into their beds. 

It had been only a matter of time, before the urge to hunt, to kill, returned. 

I had been much better at hiding it before, I thought. But when I raised my hands to my face I saw that they were covered in blood, I cursed myself. 

I would need to learn to be more careful in the future. I looked down at the body of the woman before me. She hadn’t been doing anything out of the ordinary. I had seen her around the manor, in fact, and caught myself thinking those old thoughts. Wondering what her routines were, how I might be able to catch her unawares. I had never seen her with anyone other than the people she worked closest to, and I knew then that the moment I had seen her, she would be my first in Prythian. 

When I learned that she was secreting information between Tamlin and Ianthe, I knew I had all the justification I needed to find her. I had cornered her and she broke far too easily, the fear of Feyre Cursebreaker and Feyre Cauldron-blessed breaking any resistance she’d had before I’d even had a chance to go to work. 

It was a bit disappointing. 

But now… looking down at the mess I had created, I realized that I would be able to hide my tracks so much easier than when I had been human. The frail human girl who had struggled, who had had to plan and calculate and choose her targets based on timing and availability of weapons, hoping for lonely wanderers to pass through our village, that was a thing of the past. 

The familiar lightness that came from after a hunt had returned to me, one I hadn’t felt in over a year since I had first crossed the wall. I felt the absence of burdens that had been with me since I had killed Andras. 

With a smile, I cleared the blood from my hands in an instant, checking my clothing for any sign I had missed. With the snap of my fingers, the woman’s body was engulfed in flames. I brought a wind to carry the scent far away from the manor, and with a quick brush of my skirts I made sure not a piece of clothing was out of place. 

Hands clasped behind my back, I strolled back through the gardens to check on Tamlin and Lucien. 

What brought me joy, indeed.


	16. Feysand - who gave you that black eye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Who gave you that black eye?" for feysand

The first thing that Feyre noticed about Rhys when he walked into the dining room was the disheveled state of his clothing. 

The second thing she noticed was the purple and red discoloration of a massive black eye that had nearly swollen shut. 

She would have jumped up to care for him, except for the sheepish expression that he managed to wear in spite of his inability to use said eye. 

Instead, she narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms. “Who gave you that black eye?” 

Throwing his weight into his usual chair and slumping down, he answered, “You don’t want to know.” 

“I’m not sure I do. But you’re going to tell me anyway.” Feyre walked over to Rhysand’s chair and placed a hand on his shoulder to steady herself while she leaned down to inspect the damage. She lifted his chin to get a better look, and after giving a short tsk of her tongue, she said, “This had better be good.” 

Feyre lifted a finger to indicate that he should wait, and quickly returned with a rag and a bowl of water to clean the minor scrapes he had incurred. 

As she worked, she waited for him to begin talking. When he didn’t, she poked his shoulder. “So, what happened?” 

“Feyre, there are some things that you don’t know yet, about Illyrian culture. Some of the trials that we endured while training, they were…” Rhys looked off into the distance at something that wasn’t there, something from his past. Feyre took a deep breath, preparing herself for whatever might come next. 

“One of them in particular was difficult. Cassian was always the most competitive during this particular trial. It was…” Rhys shook his head. “Everyone knew that if Cassian became involved, no one would beat him. I’ve been trying to for years.” Bitterness crept into his voice and he gripped the edge of the table. 

“OK Rhys, what was this trial, exactly?” 

Letting loose a deep sigh, Rhys answered, “A dance competition.” 

Feyre stood up straight, her hand falling to her side. “A dance competition?” she echoed. Surely he was joking, surely this could not be the cause of such a deep-seated rivalry amongst Illyrian warriors, proud as she knew they could be. 

“It’s about agility and dexterity. It’s an art form, Feyre!” he exclaimed. “We had to practice, so long, in between training with various weapons and learning battle tactics. It was brutal.” His eyes returned to their gazed, far-away look, and Feyre took a deep breath, gripping the washcloth between her hands. 

“But Rhys, I’m confused. How does this lead to your black eye?” She gestured to his face, her mind racing to Cassian, to Azriel, trying to keep images from racing through her head, but they wouldn’t stop and she was so close, so close to losing control… 

He cleared his throat. “Azriel and I, we practice. Once a week, we meet in secret. We vowed, all those years ago, that we would defeat him. So we’ve been training. We just had a misstep today. I miscalculated where he was going, or he miscalculated my next step, I’m not sure, but before I knew it his elbow was in my face.” 

Feyre returned to tending to his wound, her views of the three brothers changed forever. 

“Feyre?” Rhys asked. 

“Yes?”

“Don’t tell Cassian? That we are practicing. Or training, I mean.” 

“I promise, Rhys.”


	17. Elucien - your feet are cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was: "Quit touching me. Your feet are cold." for elucien

Elain and Lucien had been traveling together for a week when they found themselves stuck at an unfamiliar inn. The rain was pouring, dark had fallen what seemed like hours ago, and neither of them were much in the mood for conversation until the were warmer, dryer, and had something to eat. 

When they reached the door of the only place in town with lodging, Lucien held it open and Elain entered without a word. This was going to be a long night, but if they could find a place to stay and take care of their basic needs, they just needed to make it to morning. Then Lucien’s magic would be replenished, and they could winnow to their next destination. Which, hopefully, would have more acceptable weather, as well as nicer places to stay. 

Finding out that there was only room was just par for the course, then. Elain remained expressionless when Lucien broke the news, and merely waited for him to lead the way. 

After eating a stew of mystery meat, barely-flavored water, and something that passed for vegetables, they took the opportunity to change out of their wet clothing, hardly a word passing between them. Lucien gritted his teeth when Elain crawled into the sole bed in the room, keeping to her side. This was not the way he pictured the first time they shared a bed. The place was wrong, their moods were wrong, the weather was going to make it impossible to sleep. None of it was conducive to a good mood, let alone intimacy. 

Under normal circumstances, he might have appreciated the way that her slight hips just barely swelled out from her waist, or the way that she gathered her hair over her shoulder in a braid to rest on her breast. But now - no, even now, he couldn’t bring himself to considering that. Well, at least not enough to do anything about it. 

With a sigh, he crawled into the other side of the bed. 

They each tried to adjust, not quite getting comfortable, their range of movement severely limited by how awkward they felt to be sharing the same bed. They’d had moments together recently when Lucien thought that maybe, perhaps she had begun to return his feelings. But this was definitely not a moment when that likely to be a topic of discussion. 

After finally finding herself in a comfortable position not to close to Lucien but also not falling off the edge of the bed, Elain allowed herself to close her eyes. When she felt something brush up against her rear, she jumped up, nearly screaming. “What was that?!” 

Lucien sat up, shocked. He looked down. “It was just my hand, Elain. I’m sorry. What did you think it was?” 

“Nothing,” she stammered in reply. 

The sound of the rain on the roof was nearly deafening and unfortunately, the wind was causing a loose shutter to creak and slam into the side of the building. They both laid with their eyes closed and tried to ignore nearly everything around them - the sounds, each other, the cold, the disgusting aftertaste of their dinner. They slowly grew bolder with their movements, getting the sense of the space they had available without having to touch one another. 

And then Elain miscalculated. 

“Quit touching me, your feet are cold,” Lucien snapped. 

Elain sat up again, turning towards him. “Excuse me?” 

“You heard me. I’m already cold, I don’t need your tiny feet making it worse.” 

“Fine.” She shuffled her feet closer to her side of the bed. “I told you it was going to rain,” she muttered into her pillow. 

“What?” 

“I said _I told you it was going to rain, Lucien_ ,” she snapped back. 

“And I told you I couldn’t winnow us to the next town anyway, Elain. I’m sorry. I tried.” Lucien sounded sincere enough that she turned over to face him. 

“I know. I’m sorry, too.” They laid facing one another, contemplating what to do next. 

Lucien spoke first. “Elain, I have an idea. A way I can make it up to you.” 

She propped her head up on her hand, looking down at him. “How will you do that?” 

“We can… get closer. For body heat. This room is pretty cold and I know your hair is still a bit wet, so if you wanted. You can touch me with your cold feet.” 

Nodding, Elain tucked herself into Lucien’s warmth. She might be in a poor mood, but he was glad she wasn’t stubborn enough to refuse the offer of warmth that the drafty room certainly couldn’t provide. Elain buried her face in his chest and wrapped his hair around her fingers before he knew what she was doing. She stiffened slightly, and Lucien waited for her to move away, but she didn’t. 

“Lucien?” 

“Yes, Elain?” 

“Your feet are cold, too.” 


	18. Nessian - is there a reason you're naked in my bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "is there a reason you're naked in my bed?"

At the end of the evening, all Nesta wanted to do was collapse into her bed. Listening to the small talk of various High Fae for hours had thoroughly worn her out, even though she gave them little response beyond a small nod of her head and a sympathetic mm-hmm. She should have told Mor that she would rather have dinner in her room, but somehow her friend had convinced her that coming to this gathering would be good for her. In what way Nesta wasn’t sure, and now she regretted nearly every deadly boring moment. 

Reaching the door of her room, her hand hesitated on the doorknob when she heard snoring coming from inside. She rolled her eyes, wondering which High Fae noble had gotten drunk enough to wander down her hallway and pass out. She opened the door with enough force to make sure that it would wake the interloper. 

The light from the hallway spilled into the room just enough to illuminate a male figure sitting up suddenly in her bed, hand raising to his face to shield it. 

Male. Wings. Illyrian. Of course. She took a deep breath. 

“Nesta, sweetheart, are you just now going to sleep? It’s late,” Cassian said. He ran his hand over his face and then pushed his hair back from his forehead. 

“Is there a reason you are naked in my bed?” Nesta asked. 

Cassian looked down at himself in surprise. “This isn’t my bed? I was wondering what you were doing in my room.” 

“No, this isn’t your bed, nor is it your room. Can you find your own room, now?” Nesta kept her hands on her hips, hands fisted to keep from doing something she might regret. 

“Of course. Sorry about that. I’d never had the wine they make in the Summer Court before.” He grinned at her but then grimaced when he realized that a hangover on Summer Court wine was also about to be a new experience for him. Rolling over, Cassian tried to stand to leave, but instead fell to the ground with a heavy _thud_. He was hidden from Nesta’s view, having fallen on the opposite side from her, and she didn’t move, waiting for him to pop his head up, stand, and leave. 

Instead, Cassian let out a loud, pitiful groan. 

“I’m not helping you, Cassian, not while you’re naked. Where are your clothes?” 

From the floor, he answered, “I’m not sure, to tell you the truth. Perhaps in your bathroom?” 

Nesta walked into the room to find his clothing, which was, as he promised, there, to her surprise neatly folded and laying on the counter. She took the pile back into her bedroom and threw it over the side of the bed. 

“Thank you.” 

Nothing happened for a moment, and just as she was about to ask what he was doing, Cassian’s voice came from the floor. 

“Nesta. I don’t know if I can put my pants on.” 

Nesta cursed under her breath. “Why, Cassian?” 

“I’m still drunk and my fingers don’t work.” 

Walking around to the side of the bed, Nesta was greeted with the sight of Cassian sprawled out, his pants on but not fastened, the rest of his clothing laying around him on the floor. She reached a hand down to help him up, which he accepted with an exhausted sigh. As he stood he grabbed her shoulder to steady himself, and then promptly sat down on the edge of the bed. 

“Can you walk?” she asked him. 

He looked up at her. “Nope. I certainly cannot do that, or fly.” 

“I didn’t expect you to fly through the house, Cassian.” She paused, weighing her options. “Do you want to stay here?” 

His face lit up. “Really? So I don’t have to go anywhere? Will you cuddle me?” 

“Yes really, and no, Cassian, you smell like a walking bottle of alcohol, so there will be no cuddling. You stay here,” - she gestured to the side of the bed he was on - “and I’ll sleep on that side. Just keep your pants on.” 

Flopping onto his back and settling back into the pillows, Cassian made a contented noise. “I don’t know what Az was talking about, you don’t have a stick up your butt. You can be quite nice.” 

Nesta smirked despite herself and got ready for bed, making sure to choose the most modest nightgown she had before getting in bed next to him. “Good night, Cassian.” 

“Good night, Nesta,” he answered, his voice muffled by his pillow. “And thank you, sweetheart.”


	19. Nessian - it's ok to cry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was the result of two prompts: "it's ok to cry" and "I'll kick his ass if you want me to"

Nesta had never felt so idiotic. There were many things she could deal with. Knowing that Feyre had been taken by some High Fae. Knowing that her father was sitting at home whittling figurines that would bring in a pittance when sold to travelers. Being taken from her home in the middle of the night and Made. 

But this… this was too much. Sometimes, the straw that broke the camel’s back was less straw-like and more shaped like a bitter little lesser fae who thought he could take advantage of someone who hadn’t lived in Prythian for very long by treating them however he wanted. And while Nesta knew it was small, and petty, and hardly worth her time, she still wanted to punch something soft and sensitive. 

“Are you ok?” Cassian knew it was Nesta’s least-favorite question, but often there was little else he could say. So he took the direct route, knowing that anything subtle or that didn’t get straight to the point would be easily deflected by her sarcasm. 

“Of course. It was a simple mistake,” she answered, pacing the floor in front of their bed. Who could have known that the song she had been humming to herself while shopping had been written during the war, by humans, and was incredibly vulgar? And who could have known that her off-key rendition would have been the real reason the denizens of the Rainbow would start yelling at her to please, for the love of the Mother and the Cauldron, please shut up? 

She didn’t know the words. She didn’t realize their implications. And so when the small man with pale blue skin and black eyes had come up to her with his hands on his hips, she had sized him up and asked what he was doing blocking her path. 

“It’s ok to cry,” Cassian said. 

“I know that,” she snapped. And of course she immediately regretted it. There were few people in the world whom she might take the time to treat in a certain fashion, and Cassian was one of them. Not that he needed to know that. At least, not yet. So she wiped away the beginnings of a tear and turned towards him in a sign of peace, one he recognized well enough. 

“I’ll kick his ass if you want me to,” he continued, non-plussed by her retort. If there was anything he had learned from the past few months with Nesta, it was that her initial reaction rarely indicated her true feelings, and given how upset she was, there was probably something very, very trivial at the root of it. He’d seen her face the King of Hybern, the mortal queens, creatures that had struck fear into some of his most fearless warriors. But sometimes, the smallest things were just the perfect size for getting under one’s skin and doing the most damage. 

“I can do that on my own, thank you.” She crossed her arms and strode towards him, knowing that if she approached him she would do something she regretted, but caring very little. 

“What did he say to you?” 

“It doesn’t matter.” 

“Sure it does. I need to know why I’m going down there to kill someone half my size. I need a good reason.” 

Nesta sighed and crossed her arms. “He said I sounded like a hyena in heat.” 

Cassian’s eyebrows furrowed. “What’s that?” 

“I don’t know!” With that Nesta finally burst into tears, angry with herself, angry with Cassian for seeing it, and wanting nothing more than to bury her face in his chest. She covered her face with her hands and he pulled her in close, wrapping his arms around her. 

He gave her a few minutes to cry, rubbing his hand over her hair. When the sounds of her sobs slowed, “Ness?” 

“Yeah?” She didn’t want to lift her head from his chest, preferring to wait until her face didn’t look so miserable. But that would mean they’d be standing like this for much longer than she felt comfortable with, so she looked up at him. 

“Can I hear you sing?” 

“Screw you, Cassian.”


	20. Lucien + Cassian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was "You look pretty hot in plaid"

Lucien walked out of the bedroom, tugging on the hem of his shirt and frowning. “You’d think the Autumn Court could come up with something more original than this. Of all the things to force us to wear to this meeting. I expected apple cider and bonfires and pumpkin pie, but this is really pushing the limit. I had forgotten how prosaic they can be.” 

“You look pretty hot in plaid,” Cassian said, shrugging. He took Lucien in from his seat, the heavy fabric of Lucien’s shirt doing nothing to conceal his broad shoulders that tapered to a narrow waist. Cassian was already thinking about the last time he had held those hips between his palms, and it wasn’t doing much to help him remain collected. 

“Prosaic and plebeian,” Lucien continued. He was going to give in to what he knew would be Cassian’s insistence that he looked perfectly fine, better, even, but not quite yet. Not before he’d had his say about how annoyed he was that this inane tradition continued, even after Beron was no longer High Lord. 

“Don’t be a snob,” Cassian said. 

Lucien met Cassian in the middle of the room, hands now freed from the duty of pulling uncertainly on his clothing. 

Cassian stood and strolled towards him. Reaching up, he adjusted the collar of Lucien’s shirt and then held it, pulling him closer. 

“It’s a hard habit to kick. And I’m not being a snob. I just don’t like this shirt,” Lucien said. 

“You know you look hot,” Cassian protested. He gave another small tug and Lucien had to balance on his toes to keep himself from falling into him. 

“Really? I mean, it’s just-“ Lucien made an uncertain gesture towards his clothing. 

“It’s very rugged. Very manly. I think I might not be able to help myself.” He cocked his head at Lucien, trademark grin mysteriously absent. “You remind me of a lumberjack. Making your living on the land, with nothing but your brute strength and wits to keep you alive.” His usual grin finally appeared, and the scowl that was threatening Lucien’s face was replaced with a reluctant smile. 

“What are you going to do about it, then? Make up pretty stories about two lumberjacks in the woods and how they met and formed a lifelong attachment?” Lucien asked. 

“Who said anything about two lumberjacks? Although, that’s not a bad idea…” Cassian leaned forward and their lips met. 

“When do we go, then?” Lucien asked when they pulled apart. 

“I think you misunderstood, dearest. I have no intention of living in the woods, even if the clothing is quite becoming. I do expect you to wear that more often, though.” 

“Fine. But only if I get to pick out an outfit for you, as well. I’m thinking something along the lines of a fireman?” 

Cassian ranked on Lucien’s shirt once more, bringing his lips to Lucien’s collarbone before answering. 

“Deal.”


	21. Nessian - I may be an idiot but I'm not stupid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassian goes to check on Nesta after a battle. Prompt: "I may be an idiot, but I'm not stupid" (it got a bit angstier than the prompt would imply)

Cassian walked into Nesta’s tent ready to talk about what had happened. They both knew that the things she would see during the war would change her. He had tried to prepare her, to explain, while she stared, arms crossed, until he had given up. 

And now that it was here, now that it had happened, he didn’t know what to expect from her. Only that he would try to be there, as much as she would allow him. And he had no idea how much that would be. 

He said her name quietly before entering, asking permission. When she answered with a short come in he gave a sigh of relief, counting this as a small victory. Hopefully not his only one. 

“How are you?” he asked. He scanned her for injury, though he could tell immediately that she hadn’t incurred any of the physical variety. He was looking for injury of a different kind, one he was only just learning how to spot. And if she allowed him, he would continue to watch her and care for her in that way. She gave away hints that she was unaware of, and he quietly catalogued them, putting them away for when she might let him close enough to tend to her. 

“Fine. How are you?” Nesta answered shortly. She was unlacing her shoes with difficulty, the mud and grass crusted in every possible inconvenient place. Cassian knelt in front of her and brushed her hands away, taking over the task that was clearly making her angry. 

“I’ve seen this before. I’ve dealt with it. It’s not easy, but I know how. And you didn’t answer my question.” He pulled free one shoe and placed it neatly underneath her cot, going to work on the other. 

Nesta held her hands in her lap. “Oh yes, the big, strong Illyrian warrior. You’ve seen and done everything haven’t you? 

“Not quite, but what I definitely haven’t seen is a Made woman go into battle the way that you did. And even if you are physically strong, Nesta, there are things that we see out there that no one can ignore. Things we have to do that we should never find necessary.” Cassian’s voice lowered, as if he were sharing something with private with her, if she could only work out what it was. 

“I’m perfectly fine, Cassian. I may not have grown up a brute in some training camp, but I can handle myself.” Nesta sat back as Cassian pulled her second boot off, setting it neatly next to the other. She scowled at him and crossed her legs. Her attempt at nonchalance fell short, however, when her lower lip trembled. 

“I may be an idiot, but I’m not stupid, Nesta,” Cassian protested. 

“What’s the difference, Cassian? Is that some fae thing I don’t understand yet?” Nesta asked. She sat up straight, legs uncrossing and shifting, trying to find some position that would communicate confidence or, at the very least, comfort. 

“Don’t push me away. Please.” He held a hand out to her and she batted it away harder than she intended. “I know that this affected you. And you don’t have to tell me how. Not yet. Not ever. But let me be there for you.” 

A tear began to roll down her cheek and she wiped it away angrily, nearly bruising the delicate skin of her cheek. Cassian grabbed her hand and clasped it between his own. When another tear slipped down her cheek, he caught it with his thumb. Pulling her hand to his lips, he breathed words into her skin, something in Illyrian that she didn’t understand but sounded something like a prayer or vow. 

“I’m here, Nesta. For whenever you need to tell me… anything.” He set her hand back down in her lap, gently, as if he wanted to be sure of where she wanted it, where it belonged. Reaching up, he let the palm of his hand approach her tear-stained cheek, waiting for her to meet him. 

Nodding, she leaned her head into his hand, closing her eyes, and letting the horror of the battle fade away until all she knew was this connection between them.


	22. Elucien - Dude, this is romantic as fuck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucien and Elain go on a date, and his nerves get the best of him. In other words, he acts like an idiot. 
> 
> Prompt: Dude this is romantic as fuck

Lucien had invited Elain over for dinner a week ago, and as he waited for her to arrive at his front door, he cursed himself for failing to consider how much time he would have to stress. To stew over potential failure. To wonder whether it might be going to far if he just popped over to see Feyre, to ask what Elain’s favorite food was, what color she liked best, which flowers might be the most appropriate for the table. 

No, he certainly had not done that - well, at least not the Feyre thing - but in those 7 days, every minute felt like an eternity that existed merely to taunt him with the possibility that she would send word. That she wasn’t coming. 

But here she was, walking up the steps to his front door, and Lucien gasped and pulled himself away from the window when he realized that she had seen him watching for her, that he had been so captivated by the way she carried herself that he had just… stared. Stared at her as if he nothing better to do for the rest of his life, and he cursed himself for letting his sense leave him. 

Strike one. 

Maybe she hadn’t seen him? Perhaps the glare from the streetlights or the porch light had been enough to obscure what would seem like creepy, stalkery behavior to anyone who happened to have been around when he let slip from his mind that other people exist, that they can observe him, that they will judge. He was well aware of how ridiculous he was acting and if he could have stopped himself, he would have. Lucien was going to have to talk to Feyre about this whole mating bond business, and if it had ever made her feel as ridiculous as it made him feel. Surely he would feel less alone if he knew that others before him had made a similarly dumbass mistakes while trying to figure out if someone was the love of their lives. 

Lucien spent half the time wishing he didn’t care for Elain, and half the time knowing he would never regret feeling… whatever this was. He hadn’t chosen it, but he supposed that there was never a question of choice, when it came to what he felt for her. And that if he had been given the opportunity to erase her from his mind, no matter how tempting the offer might seem on nights when he would have given anything for the relief of _knowing_ how she felt and what she wanted, he still would have said no. He still would have told anyone within range and with a willing ear just how much he loved the woman who managed to make the focus of every room shine over her head and revolve around her laughter. 

Between Elain being Made by the Cauldron and the war with Hybern, they’d hardly had a chance to speak, and since she had gotten a handle on her powers… They both had so many obstacles to overcome that Lucien wasn’t sure where to start, or when exactly it might end. How does one deal with all of their issues, forever, he wondered sarcastically to himself in the moments leading to this one. How might he ever find himself in a place where he could say with 100% certainty that he was in the proper place, and she was in the proper place, and from there they might find one another? This was an impossible scenario, a tale from his mother before bed, the idea that either of them would find the moment to finally let this happen, let alone at the same time. 

Adjusting his shirt, fixing the collar so it was straight but not severe, Lucien opened the door to greet Elain. 

With horror, he opened the door to his date’s hand raised, poised to knock on the door. But she hadn’t yet made contact with the wood, and if she hadn’t known he was waiting by the door for her before, she surely knew now. 

Elain lowered her hand and smiled graciously, making a slight curtsy. “Lucien. Thank you for your prompt response at the door. It’s quite chilly out, and I am so pleased that you had the foresight to ensure your guest wouldn’t catch cold.” She smiled and held out her hand, which Lucien took mechanically, placing a half-hearted kiss on it. Guest. Why had she used that word? 

“Elain, I,” he began, but he stopped himself. He had been prepared to confess everything, that he had been staring and waiting and pacing for over an hour. He wanted to explain that somehow, when it came to her, nothing rational was ever his first choice. But then he realized the gift she had just given him. 

“Of course,” he said. He released her hand. “I was concerned that you were unused to the weather here. It can be quite startling, traveling from one Court to another.” 

“Thank you for that. Not all High Fae are as accommodating as you are.” 

Lucien stepped aside to allow Elain into the foyer, wondering when their date had turned into some sort of formal, nearly political rendezvous. He watched as she handed her muff to a servant, followed by the pale gray cape she wore. Lucien was so mesmerized by a long, bronze curl that bounced along her back that he didn’t realize when the butler came in to announce dinner. With a start, he offered Elain his arm after she cleared her throat. 

Dinner began as a stuffy affair, with servants bustling around them and explaining the vintage of the wine. Lucien had a feeling that they would be deferential to Elain no matter what he required of them, no matter what prejudices some might hold against High Fae who had been Made, rather than born. She had the effect of lowering everyone’s guard, and he was determined not to let the same to affect him. No, he would be rational and keep his wits and nothing might compromise his proper behavior and betray the fact that he wanted to jump across the table to kiss her and finally understand the texture of her lips. 

Their conversation began polite enough, discussing what they could without mentioning anything too personal. Any time he felt the danger of emotion begin to approach, Lucien quickly steered the conversation away from anything that might have to do with what either of them felt. He listened to himself in horror every time he would change the subject, knowing that what he wanted more than anything was to ask Elain what she felt, what she wanted, how she was. 

Strike two, Lucien thought to himself. Elain might not have considered a specific moment as the one in which the gulf grew wider, but Lucien could feel it becoming harder and harder to connect with her. Could feel the distance between them growing that might make it impossible for them to ever find one another across it. 

Eventually, Lucien decided to take a different approach. They had been talking of the weather, their families, upcoming festivals and celebrations, all of it topics they might have discussed with a stranger. But he didn’t want to be a stranger, what he wanted was to know every thought and feeling that passed through her, and he became desperate. Lucien thought of the first personal, intimate thing that he could say to Elain, and spoke. 

“And how is Graysen?” He dug his fork into spiced vegetables and rice in front of him, waiting for her to answer before he looked up. 

Elain set her fork down with a clatter. “Dude, this is romantic as fuck,” she said, and with that, Lucien spit out his mouthful of food. He had been mindful enough to grab his napkin before this unfortunate expulsion of spicy, half-chewed food all over his date, but he still needed to recover, and fast. 

Strike three? 

“I’m sorry, Elain, what?” Lucien handed his napkin back to a servant who knew well enough to step quickly behind his chair and take away the offending food-covered cloth. “I’m sorry but…” Words would not come to him for a moment, and he waited to see if he would get Diplomat Elain or another version. 

“Weren’t we on a date? Weren’t we trying to connect, to see if this-“ she indicated to a spot on her ribs, just beneath her breast, “- if this were worth something more than fevered dreams?” 

Lucien’s eyes rested on Elain’s hand, flat against the bodice of her dress. The dress was in keeping with human styles, though without the stays that might exaggerate her figure. He noted this change, even as he realized that he had never mentioned the dreams to anyone. The way that he woke up with a longing so deep that he thought he might never make it out of bed, he thought he might never be able to breathe air in the same room as her again. Not if she rejected him. In his dreams, he was looking for her. He was searching, moving from city to city, always feeling her but never being able to truly connect with her. He was perpetually one step behind her, never able to grasp her long enough to make sure she never left. 

He wanted to ask her about her own dreams, whether they might be related to his own. Instead, he waited. 

“Lucien, I never had any idea about this relationship being so easy. I never thought you’d have an easy time getting over your ex. I never thought that I would be able to let go of Graysen. I didn’t think I wanted to let go of him.” A slight shadow passed over her face, and Lucien wondered that it was even possible. But she just had said “fuck,” a word he had never imagined she would even hear, so maybe everything he thought about her was a lie. 

“I’m not a doll. I’m not insane.” Determination began to take over what had threatened to turn her countenance permanently black, and she continued. “After I lost my humanity, I needed time. I needed to understand what I was doing, why I had been punished. But do you know what I realized, Lucien?” 

He could only shake his head, wondering that she would be so open and free with him. 

She continued. “I realized that I hadn’t been cursed. This isn’t what I wanted. A year ago, I never would have thought this possible. I never would have thought I’d be here, talking with you. But that’s the thing, Lucien. I see… so much now. I see everything, and yet nothing. For all my powers, I don’t know if being with you is the right or good thing.” 

Lucien set down his fork and knife, waiting for the blow she was surely about to deal. If only he could explain how much she would wound him, if only she could intuit the way that even the slightest of her smiles could become a buoy for days at a time, keeping him afloat in a situation he had never had an idea of surviving. 

“I think that we need time,” she said. “I think that I love you.” Lucien swallowed at the confession. “I’m not sure how or why. But I think that if you want the same, then I am willing to talk about more than just the weather with you.” 

Lucien grinned. “Talking about more than just the weather would be great.” He held back a snort as he picked up his fork, the tension already leaving his shoulders. 

“It hurts to love you,” Elain said. She pushed food around her plate with her fork. “But I still love you. I don’t know what any of it means.” She looked up at Lucien, and with a smile took a bite of food, watching Lucien watch her enjoy the flavors. 

Elain sat back in her chair. “But,” she said, “It might actually become romantic as fuck.”


	23. Mor & Cassian - I want a lion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mor and Cassian go out drinking and have a brilliant idea. 
> 
> Prompt: "I want a lion" with drunk Mor

Mor and Cassian went to Rita’s to let off some steam after a particularly difficult trip to the Hewn City, which was something they were so used to that they hadn’t even discussed their plans beforehand. They saw one another from down the street and silently took their usual table, waiting until they each had a drink in hand before speaking. What they weren’t used to, however, was drinking quite this much, quite this quickly. 

Cassian wasn’t sure how it had happened. One minute it seemed that they were sipping their drinks at a reasonable, responsible pace, and the next moment he noticed a slurring to Mor’s words, that when he shifted on the plush seat, he had a difficult time regaining his equilibrium. 

Given the day they had just spent with Keir, he figured they probably both deserved a few extra drinks. Not that this would be the first time they had drunk and then made bad decisions together. He made a mental note to make sure that Amren never found out about whatever adventures they might have that night, and ordered another round. 

Their conversation needed to revolve around anything other than politics or business or the Hewn City if Cassian was going to help his friend forget how hard she worked to merely survive down there, somewhat intact. So he jumped straight into the thing that he knew would distract her without fail - fluffy, cute animals. Their conversation began with kittens and meandered to red pandas, the way that baby elephants would roll around in mud, when Mor took over in her enthusiasm. 

“Do you know who has cute animals? The Winter Court.” Mor swirled her wine around her glass, finishing it off before resting her head on the back of her chair. She squeezed her eyes shut. Cassian wasn’t sure what kind of tears would come out next, and breathed a sigh of relief when he realized that she was going to have a “this thing is so cute” cry, and not a “I’m being a sad drunk” cry. 

“They have these little foxes, Cassian, have you seen them? They wear vests and carry things. They are so helpful.” Mor burst into tears at the memory. 

Cassian placed a gently hand on her knee. “I know, Mor. I know.” He said this with solemnity, wanting to laugh at her sensitivity while trying to forget that not five minutes ago he had nearly cried at the thought of soft, warm puppies. 

“You know what else are cute? Lions. Baby ones. The Winter Court doesn’t have lions.” She sighed. “I want a lion,” Mor whined. Her shoulders heaved with the following sigh, the burden of her lack nearly too much to bear when she was two bottles deep. 

Cassian nodded sagely in understanding, trying to convey his support without crying himself. He hadn’t realized how far they had gone, how seriously she was taking this conversation, until she suddenly pitched forward and threw her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking with heavy sobs. 

“Mor, I have an idea!” he exclaimed in a half panic. He was supposed to take her here to forget the day, and while he had succeeded, he had also given her something else to be upset about. 

She looked up at him, wiping away at her tears and streaking her makeup. Even drunk Mor would have taken better care with the deadly combination of tears and mascara, and so he knew it was time for them to stop drinking. But for now, he had to act fast to make her stop crying and somehow turning the cuteness of animals into a dire matter. 

“What’s your idea?” 

“Ok, tomorrow, we go and we get lions. We will love them and hug them and train them. I can get one and you can get one, and they will be our friends. And they can be friends. We will find the bravest and kindest of all lions to be our friends.” Words half-formed and slurred poured out of him before he knew what he was doing. He could have suggested a trip to the Winter Court. He could have suggested that she get a pet fox, or perhaps another animal native to the Night Court. But no, he grasped for the first straw he found, and found it to be the promise of a large, predatory animal living with them. 

“And they will become our fiercest companions, warriors by our sides,” Cassian added, lifting his glass in salute to the future valor of their lions. 

“Wait!” Mor exclaimed, and she threw herself across the table their feet had been resting on. Grasping for a pen and a piece of paper, she wrote “To-Do” at the top. “We can’t forget this. I am very, very drunk right now,” she said, “And so we must write this down.” With flourish, she wrote their one-item list which read: 

_Item 1 (one): Find lions for me and my friend Cassy_

At the bottom of the paper, Mor signed her name. She slid the paper over to Cassian, whose eyes widened, impressed by the foresight of his trashed friend. But sign the paper he did, and when Mor sat back with a contented hum, he considered his job complete for the evening. 

******* 

When Cassian woke the next morning, he was startled to find himself in bed. The last thing he remembered was signing the to-do list with all the formality of a legal document. Turning his head, he saw another leaf of paper sitting on his nightstand. Fairly certain he hadn’t left it there, he picked it up, groaning as he read. 

Dear Cassian, 

I ran into you and Mor at Rita’s last night; you don’t need to thank me for getting you home, though you did smell like the wrong end of a dog by the time I got you there. Mor shared your wishes with me, and I am pleased to be able to provide what seems to have been a great wish of yours. You will find your new companions in the gardens, but I expect you to name, feed, train, and take basic care of them between the two of you. I will have no part in the care of these beasts, as I am merely the instrument of their procuration. Mor will receive a similar note, and so she will be aware of the gift and her new responsibilities. As before, I expect no thanks - the amusement I will gain in watching you try to deal with this, the latest in a chain of brilliant ideas you’ve had while drinking with the Morrigan, will be payment enough. 

Best,  
Amren


	24. Mor & Andromache

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mor and Andromache take a walk by the Sidra after a rainstorm and are just cute and gay together. Kinda an AU in which they are still together after the war.
> 
> Prompt: No, you don't deserve ice cream!

The promenade next to the Sidra was slick from rain, and the slight warmth of the afternoon created an unusual humidity in the air. Mor breathed in deeply, the scent of petrichor and the river mingling. Andromache hadn’t wanted to go out, had insisted that the rain might return and that sitting comfortably with a book by the fire would be far more appealing. Mor’s insistence had only lasted a moment before she was worn down. 

Storms like this were frequent on fall afternoons, and Andromache was fully aware of how little regard Mor had for the difference between “good” and “bad” weather. She would have run through the rain if Andromache had joined her, and then she would have complained when her nose swelled with a cold. Which is why Andromache was always the reasonable, responsible one to remind Mor of every time she had taken care of her after a poorly-timed walk (or dance) next to the river. 

Mor began to skip along the sidewalk, and Andromache slowed to better appreciate the view. The sun set early this time of year, and it had begun to break through the clouds in a brilliant display, golden light shooting through and causing the once-threatening clouds to take on shades of pink, purple, and orange. 

But Andromache wasn’t looking at any of that. All she could look at was the pure joy on Mor’s face, the rippling of hair mussed from cuddling on the couch during the storm, the way she laughed to herself as if there were nothing she needed other than this moment, to be here with this woman. Andromache leaned against the railing overlooking the river, waiting for Mor to circle back around to her. 

“Do you know why this is my favorite time to come here?” Mor asked. Her breath came a bit quicker, nearly as much from exertion as excitement. 

Andromache shook her head, a smile beginning to form on her lips, sure that the response would be more endearing than she could handle. 

“Because of the peace. No one likes coming out when everything is wet, all the shops have closed their doors, it’s getting colder out. And yes, the idea of a fire and a warm drink are tempting. But this-“ she gestured around herself, “there is no better place to be. Next to the river, with the woman I love. After a storm I wasn’t sure I would survive.” Mor place her hand on Andromache’s, where they watched their fingers entwine, binding them. 

Clearing her throat, Mor turned, forcing Andromache to change position to look her in the eye. 

“What was fall like, before? In the Hewn City?” Andromache asked. Immediately, she regretted the question. Though she and Mor shared everything, she had learned to wait, to let the trauma of the past surface as it would rather than poke and prod until Morrigan was forced to recount what was such a recent memory. 

Mor’s eyes darkened momentarily. “Oh, it was another excuse for debauchery and cruelty, of course. Peace would not be found there. Only the storm. It wasn’t until I left that I learned to appreciate this season. I hated it, for a long time. I couldn’t-“ Mor’s voice hitched and Andromache placed a hand on the small of her back. “I suffocated.” 

Andromache nodded, having expected an answer along those lines. 

“I suffocated,” Mor repeated, quickly wiping away a tear. 

“And now?” Andromache asked. 

Mor reached a hand up to brush the deep bronze of her cheek. Andromache covered her hand with her own, the warmth enough to obscure the gathering dark and increasing chill in the air. 

“Now, I can breathe. And I am really, really hungry.” Mor grinned, and Andromache was taken aback at the strength she continued to show, even now, even after the betrayal and brutality she had suffered. They had come through the war together, but that wasn’t what startled Andromache. It was the willingness with which Mor had opened her heart, so soon after her family and others had done their best to destroy it, and any future happiness along with it. And this hope was what compelled her to pull every smile, laugh, giggle, and skip she could from Mor. To show her that her beautiful heart was cherished. 

“I see,” Andromache replied. She took Mor’s face in her hands and placed a kiss on one cheek, then the other, finally wrapping her arms around her shoulders to kiss her mouth, all their focus narrowed to the familiar feeling of each others lips and the sound of one another’s sighs. 

When Mor pulled away, she paused, waiting. 

“Ok princess, what would you like?” 

Mor tapped her fingertips together in mock contemplation. “Ice cream.” 

A sound came from Andromache that was half disbelieving guffaw and half laugh at herself that she would expect a different sort of answer. 

“Where do you suppose we get that, this time of year?” she asked. 

“Rita’s,” Mor grinned. 

“Isn’t that a bar or something?” 

“Yeah, but I know the owner, and she knows a guy. Leave it to me,” Mor replied. 

“Well then, I suppose it’s ice cream for dinner tonight,” Andromache said, and she turned to walk away from the river and back towards what had become the glittering lights of the city as the sun set. 

“No, you don’t deserve ice cream!” Mor exclaimed. Andromache stopped, waiting for an explanation. If she hadn’t known Mor as well as she did she might have been offended, or confused. But the lightness in her tone revealed that she was playing, that she hadn’t let the darkness back in. 

“Until you agree to come and dance in the rain with me next time. Promise me right now, that the next time it rains, we will come out here and dance until we can’t anymore,” Mor finished. She took a curl from Andromache’s shoulder and pulled it gently, watching it catch the light as it bounced back into its natural shape. “And then the next time it rains, we can stay at home, by the fire, and figure out more… indoor pursuits we could enjoy.” Her voice had become low with promise, and Andromache would have sold her soul at that point to be able to see it fulfilled. 

“As you wish.”


	25. Cazriel - You're strangely nonchalant for someone who almost died a minute ago

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post-battle, Cassian comforts Azriel. 
> 
> Prompt: You're strangely nonchalant for someone who almost died a minute ago.

The battle was long over, but Cassian watched Azriel for signs of its lingering. The war had taken its toll on all of them, and being a survivor, even uninjured, didn’t mean that one was free of scars. Even centuries of practice was no guarantee that this wouldn’t be the time that one of them broke. 

Each sitting on one side of the bed, back to back, Cassian focused all of his senses on the warmth coming from behind him, clinging to the fact that his best friend was alive, and yet holding panic at bay that he wouldn’t be the same. The shadowsinger was enveloped in his usual silence, and Cassian counted the beats, the moments of pause in Azriel’s movement, for hints as to what kind of silence this would be. They shared quarters, a fact that others had long since stopped questioning. The nature of their relationship was unclear to everyone outside that room, and Cassian was in no hurry to enlighten them. 

Azriel unlaced his boots one at a time, refusing to look up from the ground. As he pulled them off, he set them neatly beside one another next to the bed. 

Someone unaccustomed to his stoicism would assume that Azriel was processing, decompressing, working through the horror of the battle. Cassian knew that he was just as likely berating himself for not having done better, for the lives lost, for those he had taken, however necessary it had been. Too often, he woke to the beckoning of shadows, turning to hold Azriel in his arms, shaking. Neither of them would say a word, during or after those incidents. And so Cassian had grown used to measuring the quiet, counting the beats in between the rise and fall of his chest, rating the willingness with which Azriel would raise his eyes from the ground. 

There was the silence that meant Azriel was contemplating his next move. The silence that meant he was observing others. The silence that indicated his thoughtfulness. And there was the silence of repression, the silence that meant he was burying something deep inside, something that would eat him alive if Cassian didn’t dig it out before it made a permanent home. Some of these silences Cassian enjoyed, listened to because they gave him a kind of peace. This last silence, however, was so deafening that he nearly went into a panic when he recognized it. 

And now this last battle, only one among dozens they had experienced in their lives, had bred in Azriel the kind of silence that would destroy him, if they allowed it. 

“Do you want me to get us some food?” Cassian asked. He shifted his body just enough so he could look back at Azriel. He had stopped removing his tattered and soiled leathers, was motionless on the bed. 

Azriel shook his head, keeping his eyes on the floor. Cassian stood and went around to the other side of the bed. Getting on his knees in front of Azriel, he began to undo the clasps and buckles and ties that held the filthy clothing on. 

“How about a bath? I can run you a bath. Or even find you a book? I’m sure Mor has some bawdy romance lying around somewhere.” Cassian removed Azriel’s vest, his arms remaining limp at his sides. 

“You’re strangely nonchalant for someone who almost died a minute ago,” Az said. He took the vest from Cassian, folding it delicately so he didn’t bruise the leather, though it was nearly destroyed. 

“We all almost died. I should think we’re used to it by now. But we didn’t die. I’m here. You’re here. Or are you?” Cassian lifted Azriel’s chin, forcing their eyes to meet. “Are you here? Or are you still back there?” 

Azriel blinked and pulled away from Cassian. “I’m sorry,” he said, “That you have to do this for me.” When he reached up to unfasten the buttons on his undershirt, his scarred fingers shook. 

Cassian grasped his fingers, forcing them to still. They were both so crusted with dirt and blood and who knew what other fluids and viscera that he could barely feel Azriel’s skin beneath his fingers. He brushed a stray, dirty lock of hair from his cheek before pressing his forehead against Azriel’s. Cassian felt wetness run down his cheek, and he was unsure which of them it had come from. 

“There is nothing to be sorry for, Az. I would do this every day, if I had to. I love you. And I will continue to tell you. Every day, I will remind you of this.” He kissed the knuckles on one hand. “Every day, I would do this for you.” He repeated the gesture on Azriel’s other hand. 

Cassian stood and indicated for Azriel to lay back on the bed, an order that he complied with without hesitation. Curling his body around Azriel’s, Cassian listened as Azriel’s silence began to seep back in, as he began to shut himself off from everything outside his head. Placing his lips next to his ears, Cassian spoke. 

“Nothing you have done, nothing you could ever do, would make me love you less. Call me stubborn, call yourself worthless, I’m not going anywhere.” He felt Azriel shudder in his arms, the barrier that the silence had created slowly crumbling until Cassian knew that he had succeeded in defeating it. This time. 

“Tell me something…” Azriel’s voice trailed off before taking a breath. “Tell me something good.” 

His voice a low murmur in Azriel’s ear, Cassian began to tell him about the future, about the places they would go and things they would do, reminding him that they would always be there to catch each other before they fell.


	26. Nessian - you're dying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nesta takes care of Cassian after a battle. Based on the prompt: “That looks infected.” “It’s fine.” “You’re dying.” “Well… that’s fine too.” 
> 
> tw blood, gore

The sight of Cassian stumbling from the battlefield, bloodied hands at his stomach, would haunt Nesta forever. 

But before she got to forever, she needed to make sure he made it through the next few days. 

They had always known that another battle, perhaps another war, was possible. Hell, it was inevitable in this world of uneven power balances, greed, and douchebags like Eris running around. Nesta knew as soon as she heard about the difference between “High” fae and “lesser” fae that this world was no different than the one she had come from. There would always be someone looking to prove that they were entitled to resources and respect, without being willing to work for either. 

So the Night Court, along with the newly allied Summer and Winter Courts, frequently found themselves at the forefront of every dispute over property, land, animal, goods, and fae included. 

This time was no different. Some previously-powerful lordling from the Hewn City had decided that going to battle with his High Lord and High Lady was worth the inevitable failure. Something about honor, he’d said. As if they had heard of the concept, there. 

Azriel, Cassian, and Nesta had taken it on as their duty to fight, leaving Rhysand and Feyre to supervise. It should have been no problem. None at all. 

And they did win, of course. The inconsequential lord who had the temerity to pit himself against the three found himself limping back to his estate with his manhood tucked between his legs, any further threat limited to a slight delay in the payment of his taxes. 

That didn’t mean that there was no cost to the Court of Dreams. 

Nesta caught Cassian in her arms, guiding him behind the frontline of the battle, a battle so small that it had been the work of an afternoon. And yet. Cassian had paled, blinking as if his vision were failing him. She clung to him, wanting to get a full assessment of the damage, but not here. Not in the midst of the moans of the fae who had been unlucky enough to fight at the lord’s side, though whether they moaned in pain or humiliation, Nesta wasn’t sure. 

She winnowed him back to their home - a power she had picked up rather quickly, to her delight - leaving him on the bed while she threw open the curtains to get a better look at his wounds. Nesta turned around to see Cassian struggling with the buckles and straps of his leathers. Of course he couldn’t just lie still and leave well enough alone, let her take care of him. 

Returning to his side, she kneeled on the bed and peeled away the layers of leather, followed by the linen undershirt that stunk of sweat, blood, and whatever else men and women had left on the ground of the battlefield. Not that she smelled any better, but she knew he wouldn’t mention it, even if they were in better circumstances. Cassian grunted as he sat up so she could remove the final layers covering his torso, the remaining weapons he had on him clunking to the floor. Falling back on the bed, he looked up at the ceiling as Nesta surveyed his injuries. 

Gingerly, Nesta inspected him, checking for broken bones, to see which wounds might be deep and need more care than she could give him. When her fingers paused on gash above his hip, she frowned. Sighing, she sat back on her heels. 

“What is it?” Cassian asked, a hint of alarm in his voice. 

“That looks infected,” Nesta said, her expression changing from concern to stoicism so quickly that she was sure he hadn’t caught it. 

“It’s fine,” Cassian replied, adjusting himself uncomfortably on the bed. 

“You’re dying.” 

A beat. Nesta couldn’t even hear the sound of Cassian’s breathing as he took in the news. 

“Well, that’s fine too,” he joked, but he resumed a serious expression when Nesta glared at him. She ran her thumb over his stomach, unsure if she should comfort or chastise him for his attitude. 

“We’ll figure this out, Nesta. It will be fine. No matter what, I don’t want you to be sad for too long.” Cassian looked down, a sign that his resolve was about to break, and Nesta knew she had already gone far enough. “I want you to promise me that you won’t be alone, that you’ll find someone else,” he continued, and Nesta nearly lost her composure at the thought, at the obvious thought Cassian had put into just this sort of scenario. 

“Cassian?” She began. Hesitating. This was not a situation that she had prepared for, much as he seemed to have, and she wasn’t sure how to proceed. But she had to say the words, difficult as they were. 

“Yeah?” 

“I was kidding.” Nesta looked down at her own hands, a slight, rare blush creeping into her cheeks. “You can’t get an infection that quickly, you blockhead. And I certainly wouldn’t know if you could die of it.” Her attempt to soften the impact of fake impending death was tempered by her embarrassment and insecurity of how, exactly, one goes about making jokes regarding life and death. 

“Wait,” Cassian answered, pushing himself into a more upright position. He placed his hand on the wound that had seemed to concern her, pulling away fingers sticky with blood. He looked from his hand, to her, and back to his hand, incredulous. Finally, he poked himself in the side, testing the wound. 

Nesta looked him in the eyes, ready for whatever admonition or scolding he had for her. 

“You know how to do that?” he asked. She tilted her head at him, ready to explain the amount of medical training she’d had. “You know what jokes are?” Cassian continued, inflection rising in mock disbelief. 

Nesta stood, finding herself on the defensive, suddenly. “Of course I know what jokes are. I’m not completely without humor.” She crossed her arms and walked over to the door, prepared to find a healer and a maid to tend to Cassian and the mess the room had become. Never again would she attempt something like this, not with Cassian there ready to give her shit about the tiniest crack in her stoic facade. 

“Of course not.” She paused with her hand on the door as he continued. “I just always thought they were, well, beneath you. And you know, it’s fairly tasteless, given the circumstances.” He gestured down to his naked, bloody body, the weapons strewn about the room. 

“Well, it’s hardly the worst either of us have seen. I thought I could lighten the situation, somehow.” Memories of previous battles, other times he had stumbled towards her on the brink of death, came rushing back to both of them, and the twinge Nesta felt in her core was one she worked daily to suppress, as it only reminded her of how much she had to lose. 

Nesta turned back towards the door, ready to move on from the battle and Cassian’s insistence on never letting her get away with anything like this in his presence. 

“Nesta,” he said, causing her to pause. “You know I meant it. If anything were to happen to me, I’d want you to move on, be happy. No matter what.” 

“I know,” she answered, closing the door quietly behind her.


	27. Lussian - college AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassian finds Lucien alone studying late at night and decides to keep him company.
> 
> Based on the prompt: “We are both stuck in the dorm common room because their respective roommates needed ‘alone time’” AU

The thud of books on the table next to Lucien broke the silence in the lounge. It was loud, it was sudden, and he was not pleased. 

He’d been buried in his studies for a few hours now, or at least trying to be. When his roommate and long-time best friend Tamlin had asked him to leave their dorm room, at first kindly, and then with more menace when Lucien showed the slightest hint of resistance, he knew he’d have to find his usual table downstairs for the evening. 

At least he wouldn’t have to try to study while listening to Tamlin whine about his ex, or trying to fend off their neighbor who seemed to think that being a male and a college student meant he’d be down to fuck anything with a pulse. 

Tamlin’s excuse was that he was meeting up with someone he’d met on some dating app, though Lucien doubted that was the truth. First off, Tamlin didn’t really understand how those things worked. He insisted that his profile should say something about his “gainz” and his collection of dubstep albums, while any good his profile picture might have done was mitigated by his t-shirt, which read “Don’t Be Sexist, Bitches Hate That”. Second, Lucien knew that Tamlin was still hung up on Feyre and spent copious amounts of time trying to figure out why she just didn’t understand him. Those two reasons alone meant that Lucien would probably walk into a mess of tissues covered in various body fluids when he finally made his way back to their room. 

Combine all this with the fact that Lucien was behind on his homework for ochem, and he was in a pretty shitty mood. Sure, he was pissed that he had to leave his room in the middle of the night. Yeah, Tamlin was somewhat unpredictable lately. Mood swings, Lucien would say, if he wasn’t worried Tamlin would get offended. But really, their dorm room wasn’t the most homey or comfortable place to be. He had yet to find a place that fit that description, but… well, that was a completely different issue. 

He first glanced at the spines on the pile of books that had appeared next to him on the table. Typical textbook-looking things, but then a copy of Sense and Sensibility rested at the top of the pile, along with a few other novels Lucien had discussed in the English classes he would sneak into his schedule. His eyes traveled up until his scowl met an impossibly gorgeous grin. The man sitting on the table, arm resting on the pile of books, was someone he’d seen around on campus and at a couple of parties. Every time they ran into one another, Lucien tried to act like he was interested in something other than the way Cassian would run his hand through locks of dark, unkempt hair, or the way his ass looked in… well, everything. Like the brand of his backpack. Or his bicycle. Or what he had for lunch. Anything, anything other than how impossibly attractive the guy was. And well-read, apparently, if the novel on his stack of books wasn’t required reading. 

Cassian gestured to the books Lucien had spread out around him. “Lucien. Whatcha reading?” 

Lucien tilted his head. “Hello, Cassian. Homework. Textbooks.” He turned back to them, trying to convey indifference and anger at the same time, fearing he would succeed at neither. 

Cassian slid into the chair next to Lucien, making himself at home. Tapping his fingers on the table, he waited in silence. His books rest in their messy pile, merely a prop or an excuse to be there, Lucien wasn’t sure which. Maybe he was carrying them for someone else, like some late-night homework courier. Maybe he just used them to start up conversations; he had a good diversity of topics there, so he’d be bound to catch someone’s attention walking through just about any department hallway. That had to be it. Glancing up at Cassian, his warm brown eyes and disarming smile, Lucien already despised the way he must make his way through life, charming the pants off any man or woman he wanted. 

Not that the thought made him jealous. If anything, it was reason to steer clear. 

“Is there something I can help you with?” Lucien asked him. He kept his eye on the books and his notes, although he was more looking at words than reading, at this point. 

“I just thought you looked lonely, could use some company. It’s pretty late.” Cassian made no move to pick up any of his books, and he didn’t seem to have any paper, pens, a laptop, nothing that would help him to actually study. Lucien felt him turn to face him, and his nostrils flared involuntarily at the cheek. He should have had headphones on, but this guy might have ignored even that universal sign of Leave Me the Fuck Alone. 

“I’m trying to study. I don’t need help with that, unless you’ve taken this class,” Lucien gestured to his textbook, “and can tell me what will be on the midterm.” 

“Nah,” Cassian replied, “I don’t have to take that. And I wouldn’t do it just for fun.” 

Lucien merely nodded, keeping his eyes glued on his notes. Minutes passed. Cassian shifted slightly, but still ignored the stack of books he had brought with him. Lucien read a paragraph, realized he had no idea what it said, and tried to read it again. He highlighted some words, and then upon review was startled to find he had highlighted words like “the” and “science”. Clearly, this was getting him nowhere. 

“Ok, so why are you really here?” Lucien asked. He slammed his own book shut, silently cursing himself that he hadn’t marked his place, and turned to face Cassian. 

“Got kicked out of my room.” Cassian leaned back, settling into his chair now that he had Lucien’s full attention. “You know how these kids can be. Away from home, all the hormones…” 

“Sounds familiar,” Lucien replied. “My room is currently inhabited by my heartbroken best friend who is either hooking up with our neighbor, or crying into a pint of ice cream. Or, you know, taking care of both needs by himself.” 

Cassian snorted. “You should try living with my roommate. I’m amazed Feyre is maintaining her GPA, what with Rhys between her legs night and day.” 

Lucien started. “Rhysand is your roommate? And he’s with Feyre?” 

“Yeah, why?” 

Lucien shook his head. “I’ve just… heard some things about him. I’d keep an eye out, if I were you. My roommate might not be happy if he finds out that’s where Feyre moved on to.” 

“Don’t believe everything you hear, fox boy. Rhys is a good guy. Feyre is in quite, um, capable hands.” 

Ignoring the innuendo, Lucien’s eyes narrowed. “What did you call me?” 

Cassian reached up and ran his fingers through Lucien’s hair, and to his extreme embarrassment, he had to keep himself from leaning in to the touch. “It just came out. Because of this.” 

“Um, ok.” Lucien didn’t know how else to reply, because while he didn’t appreciate being given a pet name by someone he barely knew, he also wanted Cassian to keep touching him like that. Slowly, he turned back to the table and opened his book again. 

Cassian turned to his own books, picking up the novel from the top of the stack, finding the bookmark halfway through, and began to read. Lucien stared down at his notes, picked up a different colored highlighter, and tried to find some terms and concepts that would actually be useful to remember for the exam. 

Five minutes passed, and neither of them had turned a page in their books. Not that Lucien was paying as much attention to what Cassian was doing as he was the words in front of him. Clearly, that would not help him get through the classes that his father was begrudgingly paying for. 

He felt Cassian shift and watched out of the corner of his eye as he set his book down. He cleared his throat, a much more subtle attempt at getting Lucien’s attention than slamming the books on the table had been. Perhaps he was learning. 

“So,” Cassian began, “do you want to hear something interesting?” 

Closing his book a bit too quickly, Lucien answered in the affirmative. 

“Oh. Ok.” Cassian seemed startled. “I thought you’d blow me off. I don’t actually have anything interesting to say.” 

“Then why’d you ask?” Lucien wasn’t sure what Cassian’s game was, but he wasn’t going to complain about anything that would keep him sitting there longer. 

“I just wanted to talk to you. You seem sad, sometimes. Like you’re looking for something, and you don’t know what it is.” 

Lucien sat back in his chair, air leaving his lungs in a rush. That was unexpected. Of all the times he had fantasized about Cassian (which occurred with far more frequency than he would admit to himself), he had never imagined a conversation going like this. 

“And do you?” Lucien asked. 

Cassian looked puzzled. “Do I what?” 

“Know. Do you know what I’m looking for. What I need?” 

They finally locked eyes, testing one another to look away. But Lucien was pleasantly surprised when Cassian held his stare, and even more so when he realized that he felt safe enough to let him in in this way. 

“Probably not.” That was not an answer Lucien expected. “But I can help you figure it out,” Cassian continued, laying a hand on Lucien’s knee. Lucien looked down to where their bodies were now connected, and it was somehow the most erotic moment of his life thus far, though their skin was not yet touching. 

Looking back up, Lucien swallowed. Leaning forward, he pressed his lips against Cassian’s. To hell with studying, to hell with Tamlin and classes and his future and whatever career he might find himself falling into in order to please his father - all he needed was this. As their bodies moved in towards one another and Cassian wrapped one arm around his waist and the other went to thread his fingers through his hair, Lucien realized that Cassian did indeed know the answer to his question. But he wouldn’t tell him that. Not yet. 

An eternity seemed to pass in which Lucien was only aware of the parts of him that were touching Cassian, the feeling of his lips and tongue, the roughness of his hands and the solid muscle of his back. Lucien slid his hands up the thin t-shirt that Cassian wore, stopping himself when he lost his breath. It would do no good to return to his room a mess of tousled hair and swollen lips; Tamlin would know, would tease him mercilessly. No, Lucien had to keep this to himself. He needed one thing of his own, one part of his life that was safe and good and not under the scrutiny or either best friend or parent. If Cassian would have him, he would do this right. Not like some horny freshman who would forget the encounter a week later. 

Pulling apart, breathless and the taste of Cassian still on his tongue, Lucien stood. “I need to go. I should check on him. On Tamlin.” He began gathering his books and papers, turning them into a disorganized mess that he would have to sort out when he got back. 

Cassian stood and rested his hand on Lucien’s shoulder, slowing him down. “Will you be here tomorrow?” 

Lucien nodded. “Yes,” he said, the word catching in his throat. He was glad to find that he could still use the English language. Well, at least the word “yes” was a start. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow then, fox boy.” Cassian gathered his own books, sauntering toward the hallway where his own room was located. Looking at his phone, Lucien checked the time. Yes, he would be there tomorrow, and maybe next time he would see if his intuitions about Cassian were correct.


	28. Feysand - chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Modern AU - prompt: "My roommate had to go into my room and throw the sheets away because I haven’t been able to sleep in that bed since you left."

Feyre walked into her usual room in Rhys’ apartment and was annoyed to find the mattress bare, though the tracks on the carpet suggested it had been vacuumed recently. She couldn’t accuse him of neglecting her space, though he knew she was comparing this apartment to Tamlin’s at every moment. 

Turning to him with her arms crossed, Feyre glared. “What am I supposed to do with this? You expect me to sleep here? I didn’t bring anything except clothes and toiletries.” She gestured vaguely at the bed and threw her single bag on it. Its edges crumpled and collapsed, signaling that it was nowhere near full, though it was barely big enough to carry what she would need for the weekend. 

Feyre rarely brought enough of her personal effects to last her through the days she spent with him, making the few changes of clothing last as long as possible. While Rhys looked for ways to extend her stay, the paltry belongings were a clear sign that she had no intention of visiting any longer than she had to. 

It was supposed to be a temporary arrangement. Rhys had never expected to count down the moments when she would return, and dread when she would leave. When Lucien had suggested it, he had nearly laughed, as much from the absurdity of Feyre accepting the offer as the realization that he would have given anything to hear her say yes. 

And now that she had, he didn’t know what to do with this stubborn, clever woman in front of him. 

“My roommate threw the sheets away because I haven’t been able to sleep in that bed since you left. I’ll get some clean ones for you, don’t worry.” 

Feyre turned again, her expression somewhere between cutting frustration and soft understanding. “Why do you sleep there?” 

Rhys blinked, coughed, swayed on his heels. “It’s away from the traffic. You know, the noise from the street. And I just need to get away from Cassian’s snoring from time to time.” He laughed, though it sounded about as insincere as anything he could produce. 

Feyre went to the bed, nearly throwing her weight on it as much as sitting down. Running her hands over the bare mattress, she said, “I don’t believe you.” 

Rhys snorted but didn’t answer her. Of course she would see right through him. Of course Feyre would know exactly why he would sleep in this bed, and yet refuse to pretend that she wasn’t aware. No, she wouldn’t spare his ego. And he wanted to bless her for it. 

Rhys reached for her hand, clasping it in his own gently at first, and then with more confidence when she didn’t pull it away. 

“Stay.” When she began to protest, he cut in. “I mean longer. I mean, stay with me for a while. Don’t go back.” He eyed the hollows of her cheeks, the jutting collarbones, the hunch in her shoulders. “Not to him.” 

“I can’t,” she said simply. “I can’t.” Feyre pulled her hand from Rhys’, not ungently, and folded them on her lap. 

“You can’t? Or you don’t want to?” Rhys was afraid of the answer, but he needed to know. 

“I don’t know.” Feyre shook her head and grabbed her bag. Pulling open the zipper, she stared into it, searching for something he knew wasn’t there. Maybe one day she would tell him. Maybe one day, she would even stay. 

“Can I put my clothes in the dresser, at least?” Feyre stood and offered the bag to him. 

Taking it from her, Rhys nodded. “Let me help you.”


	29. Mor & Cassian - We could get arrested for this

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was "We could get arrested for this" with Mor & Cassian. I super love their brotp *cries*

Mor looked back at Cassian as she held the heavy metal padlock in her hands. 

“Are you sure?” The metal was cold in her hands, but she would do it. If he asked it of her, she would sever this link. 

“Yes.” He looked back down the hallway to make sure no one was approaching. “Please do it.” He cleared his throat. “I’m positive,” Cassian reassured her. 

Mor had rarely seen Cassian so solemn, so serious. This clearly meant a lot to him, and she could not let him down. Cassian was one of the best friends she had ever had, if not the best, and - damnit! She needed to work faster if they were going to avoid being caught. 

The slight sound of whimpering came from behind the door, and Cassian’s face grew a couple shades paler. “Please hurry,” he whispered. 

Mor’s heart felt like it would come out of her chest. With a quick tug, she yanked down. She threw the padlock to the floor, kicking it aside with her foot. Grasping the doorknob, she looked back up at him. 

“There is no turning back from this. We could get arrested for this, you know.” 

Cassian nodded and turned a shade of green. “I need to help them. We need to help them. I’ll deal with the rest later.” 

Mor pursed her lips, concentration gathering in the lines on her forehead. “Let’s go.” 

She entered the room, at first a dark, cold cavern. The whimpers she had heard earlier became hopeful, the scraping at cages suddenly energetic where it had been lethargic. 

“Cassian, can you…?” Mor’s voice trailed off as the light came on in the room. 

It was everything she had expected it to be, and worse. The discarded remnants of society were locked in these small, miserable cages. 

Dogs. 

Cats. 

Unloved. Unwanted. But no longer. 

Turning to Cassian, Mor asked, “Which ones?” 

“All of them,” Cassian answered with a nod, not even meeting her gaze. “We need to take all of them.” 

“Ok,” she replied. She would have been surprised if he had said anything else. 

One by one, they went to each cage, soothing the small, trembling bodies, assuring them that they would be ok. 

Mor already had a name in mind for the tiny kitten that insisted on climbing up to her shoulder, and when she looked over at Cassian, she saw him nuzzling a golden retriever that was in the midst of adolescence. Smiling to herself, she shut the cage door closed, and moved to the next one.


	30. Mor & Azriel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's Saturday night and I have been drinking. The prompt was Azriel and a Cabbage Patch doll.

When Mor came into the bedroom she wondered if she were still asleep. 

Azriel was definitely asleep, surrounded by much more bedding and finery than she had expected from him. 

But that wasn’t what had thrown her off. 

No. What was surprising was the quantity of stuffed animals that seemed to create an army around him. 

Mor and Az had been friends for ages, longer than mortals lived, and yet she wasn’t quite sure how to address this newest development. 

His arms were wrapped around one doll in particular, and she had a feeling that if she tried to pry it from his grasp, things would not end well. 

Mor had woken in the middle of the night when she had heard Az whimpering. It hadn’t been like the normal sounds of distress that she heard coming from his room in the middle of the night. That, she knew how to deal with. 

Battle scars, family abuse, the utter disdain people could treat one another with; Mor was woefully well-equipped for that. 

But the doll that Azriel had wrapped in his arms had a familiar air. She would have sworn it were the Cabbage Patch doll that Cassian had favored when they were still young, only it was so well-tended that she barely dared admit… 

When Azriel shifted to his back, letting his grip on the doll relax, Mor confirmed her suspicions. 

This was Cassian’s doll. And Azriel was holding it. Why, she didn’t know. But she knew that she needed to calm him before he woke the whole damn house. 

Laying her palm on his shoulder, she whispered his name. When she didn’t get a reaction, Mor pushed with more insistence. 

Still nothing. Azriel began to moan something, a sound, a prayer, a name… Mor wasn’t sure. She pressed her ear close to his lips, hoping to find some sort of answer to this panoply of dolls and bedding that was the last thing she would have expected. 

“….Alicia…” his voice came, at first unsure and then gaining confidence. 

“What? What is it, Az?” 

“Alicia May Emory!” he yelled, completely unaware of what he had just admitted to Mor. He did indeed have an attachment to that semblance of a person, though it had nothing to do with the doll itself, but where it had come from. Who it had belonged to. 

Mor sat back on her heels, shaking her head. 

“All this time, and all we needed to do was buy you more dolls.”


	31. Feysand - Feyre is sick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The request was: Feyre being sick/ injured and Rhys is fussing

Feyre had never really had a cold before. 

Well, not as a fae. 

She hadn’t even been aware that such a thing was possible, until the past couple of days. However, the hacking sound from her lungs reminded her of winters in the poorly-insulated cabin after her mother died, and though she didn’t want to admit it, she felt like hell. 

Rhys had noticed something right away, like the annoyingly attentive husband he was turning out to be. And it wasn’t until she nearly collapsed at a meeting with the rest of the Inner Circle that she had admitted she might not be feeling her best. 

The next day, from the comfort of their bed, Feyre lifted a limp wrist. “Rhys?” Her voice came out strained; she seemed out of breath, though she hadn’t even risen from the bed since the evening before. 

Rhys turned from the basin on her dresser, where he was wringing out a cool, wet cloth. “Yes?” 

“Could I have some soup? You know the kind I like.” She smiled sweetly, pulling her fists, sheets knotted in them, tightly up to her chest. 

“Of course, Feyre, darling.” He hesitated at the bowl, and it seemed too obvious for him to have not wanted her to notice. 

“There is something I should tell you, Feyre,” he continued. 

“What’s that?” Feyre’s voice was nearly detached, merely responding as a function of what she should do, rather than putting any effort into their interaction. 

“I think that Nesta is going to take care of that meeting for you,” he said, “the one you were supposed to have tomorrow with Kallias and Viviane. You know how fond she has grown of diplomacy…” 

His voice trailed off when he beheld the sight of Feyre, suddenly upright in bed, clutching the sheets to her chest in horror. The flush to her cheeks took on a new meaning, as he recognized how full of vigor she really was. 

“Nesta? Diplomatic?” The sudden amount of energy Feyre had acquired seemed unlikely, and so a slow smile appeared on Rhys’ face. 

“I knew it,” he said. 

Feyre’s eyes narrowed and she dropped the sheet, letting her hands fall to the bed. “Knew what?” 

“You are so full of shit, Feyre. I knew you weren’t that sick.” 

With a calm intake of breath, she drew the sheets away and stood, sliding her feet into the slippers that waited by the side of the bed. “You can’t blame me.” 

“For lying about how ill you were? For pretending to be bed-ridden so you could get out of responsibilities?” Rhys asked. While he could be scolding her, she also sensed amusement just below the surface. 

“Yes, for pretending to be sick.” Rhys snorted at her response. “But you know why I did it?” she continued. 

“Why?” 

“Because I know how much you love to be the doting husband. And you wouldn’t let me get anything done until you’d had your fill of bringing me soup and tucking in my blankets and making sure that you had taken care of every need I could possibly have.” 

Rhys blinked. “I… I can’t even argue with that.” He gestured towards the door, stepping aside to allow her to pass. “I supposed you have work to do, then?”


	32. Elucien domestic fluff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elain and Lucien's morning routine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was no prompt for this, I just felt like writing it!

Lucien wakes every morning, unsure of how he found himself in Elain’s bed.   
  
No. Not her bed. Their bed.   
  
Had he been told months ago, years, that he would wake to her lips slightly parted, hair pressed against her cheeks, fists curled around the sheets, he would have laughed. Not in mirth. Never such a laugh as that. But how else might he express his disbelief? The utter impossibility that he might find happiness?   
  
There weren’t words for what he had long since learned to live without.   
  
Lucien presses his palm to the warm sheets, feels rather than sees Elain’s toes curling, stretching. He sits up and sees them poking out from under the blanket. He reaches to pull it down, covering her.   
  
He pauses, waiting to see if she might open her eyes. There is nothing he wouldn’t give in order to provide her with this, just another moment of peace. She murmurs, and he knows that she is still dreaming. Something pleasant, he hopes. She will tell him about it when she wakes.  
  
He stands and pulls the blankets back up, ensuring that she stays surround by warmth and comfort. Feeling his way around in the dim light of dawn, Lucien finds the sink and runs his hands over his face, watching his own expression. He catalogues the pieces of him; the red hair tied in a black ribbon, dark skin freckled from time in the sun, the eye he was so self-conscious of when they met. At some point or another, Elain has said that she loves all of these bits that make up the whole. He catches himself staring in the mirror on mornings like this, trying to remind himself of what she has said.   
  
She must see something that he doesn’t, to love the scars and irregularities. He scoffs to remember her saying that she loves those the most.   
  
When he leaves the shower, he hears the sounds of domestication coming from the kitchen. Though he knows Elain is no longer asleep in bed, he smiles to himself. She makes quite a bit of noise, when she thinks no one is paying attention. When she is truly comfortable.   
  
Lucien throws on some clothing, presses his hair back from his forehead, and strides into the kitchen.   
  
Elain stands at the stove, humming something that he knows is out of tune. Somehow, she manages to mangle even the simplest of songs, and he cringes to think about what she will sound like lulling their children to sleep. He’ll have to make sure they receive a proper education in some instrument, or else they’ll end up with as horrible a sense of melody and rhythm as she has.   
  
The smells coming from the room are nearly enough to sate him; in this, she is accomplished, and although he prefers helping her prepare meals, she finds joy in taking care of him, at least in this way.  
  
And he enjoys watching her do so.  
  
Elain turns to him, resting the wooden spoon against the side of the pot. Smiling, they take one another in. She still wears her cotton shift from the night before and the sunlight is coming through the window just so that Lucien can see her form through the thin fabric. Sometimes, he forgets that she is no longer human, that what seems like frailty is disguising strength. He came to learn, much later, that even as a human, Elain had more than one disguise.  
  
Lucien pats his wet hair with his towel and throws it on the back of a chair. His bare feet recoil from the cold tiles on the floor. Tilting her head to the chair, Elain tells him to sit.    
  
And so their day begins.


	33. Nessian - I tried to change the duvet and I got stuck inside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I had a request for some nessian fluff, so I chose the prompt "I tried to change the duvet and I got stuck inside."

Nesta had spent the day with Feyre, learning more than she ever thought she needed to know about court politics. When she’d been Made, she really hadn’t expected that dying of boredom was a potential cause of death for High Fae, but Feyre seemed determined to put that to the test.

She walked into hers and Cassian’s townhouse, fully expecting a ready dinner and a clean house. While that was partly true - she could smell the roast cooking in the oven and everything had been tidied up - she didn’t see her mate anywhere. But at least she was home, and she had a couple of days away from talking with Feyre about things like lineage and how, exactly, High Lords and Ladies were chosen.

She wasn’t sure she’d ever understand that last part, and Feyre’s convoluted explanations didn’t fill her full of confidence that anyone really understood.

Nesta wandered into the kitchen to check on the roast. It smelled delicious, and she was glad to see that the timer showed that she didn’t have much of a wait to eat some of it. Luckily, Cassian was a marvelous cook, or they’d have been living at restaurants. But, Nesta figured, she didn’t need to learn to cook, if she had someone like Cassian around.

Looking around the ground floor once more, Nesta decided to search for Cassian on the upper floor.

Nesta reached the landing at the top of the stairs and heard a rustling noise. The sounds of a struggle came from their bedroom, and Nesta’s heart dropped. She threw her coat to the side and prepared herself to come to the defense of her one true love.

Cassian grunted from behind the door, but when Nesta listened closer, it didn’t sound like a struggle. Nor did it sound like he was enjoying himself - alone - and so she knocked on the door, hesitant.

“Cassian? I’m home.”

“Nesta!” he cried out from behind the door. “You’re early!”

“No, I’m not. I told you I’d be home in time for dinner. It looks like the roast is almost done, can you come out and finish it?”

“How long have I been in here?” she heard him murmur to himself. Then, in a stronger voice, he said, “I was doing laundry!”

“Ok, so why are you making those noises?” Nesta pressed her palm against the door and tried to listen. She was still a bit concerned about walking in on whatever he had going on in there. She lowered her hand to the doorknob, ready to burst in and get some answers.

She heard Cassian sigh. “I tried to change the duvet and I got stuck inside.”

Nesta clamped her hand over her mouth and released the doorknob.

“Cassian?” she asked. “Do you need help?”

A beat. Some more shuffling noises came from behind the door.

“Yes, please.”

Nesta steeled herself before opening the door.

Cassian was standing in the middle of the room, their pale blue duvet wrapped partly around his wings, and partly over one shoulder. He had also managed to get one leg inside, and was effectively standing in it. The down comforter was hanging from his back. It was inside the duvet, at least, if not exactly in the proper position.

“How did you do this?” Nesta asked. She circled around Cassian, taking where the various panels of fabric were, in comparison to where they should have been.

“I’m not sure. I’ve done this before, but somehow it just had a mind of its own today.”

Nesta spent a good ten minutes pulling fabric from one place, untangling it from another, until finally Cassian could step free of it all. She held the piles of fabric in her arms. “Now that’s done, how about you go downstairs and finish dinner, and I’ll make the bed?”

“OK.” He paused in the doorway. “Nesta, promise not to tell anyone?”

“Of course not. This is a joke I’m not going to share with anyone.”

Cassian looked at her in gratitude, until he realized her true meaning. Silently, he calculated the times when he would be most likely to catch Nesta in compromising positions so he could even the score between them in the future.


	34. Mor + Cassian = stuffed animals

“Did you know that I have 36 stuffed animals?” Cassian munched on a piece of bacon. He removed his feet from the table when Mor glared pointedly at them.

“Why are you telling me this?” She drizzled blueberry syrup on her blueberry pancakes, then doused them with whipped cream.

“I was wondering if you now how I got them all. I have quite the menagerie. Bears, tigers, wolves, some birds.”

“Nope. But I have a feeling that you’re about to tell me.” Mor took a bite of pancake and sighed contentedly. 

“Rhys gives me one every year for my birthday. It started a while back.” Cassian watched Mor as she ate. She was still pretending that she didn’t know where the conversation was going. It was a familiar game between the two of them. 

“That’s nice of him. Do you name them?”

“Yes. But that’s not the point. Why do you think he does that, Mor? Who do you think told him that all I really want is a bunch of stuffed creatures littering my bedroom? Instead of new armor or something useful?”

Mor finally met Cassian’s eyes. She grinned. “I haven’t the faintest idea.”

“Yes you do.”

Mor stuffed her face full of more pancakes and whipped cream and grinned through the mess.

“You told him. You even tell him every year which type of animal I’d prefer.”

“You might need to check with him on that, Cass. I’m not sure what gave you the impression that I’d ever convince my cousin to give that sort of gift to a warrior such as yourself. May I?” She reached over to Cassian’s plate and took a stray piece of bacon.

Cassian nodded. He’d expected a response like that.

He cleared his throat. “Thanks, Mor. I really like them. I named one after you.”

Mor stopped chewing and her eyes narrowed. “Which animal did you name after me?” She nearly spit her food out, trying to ask the question.

Cassian shrugged. “What do you care? You have nothing to do with it. May I?” He reached across to her plate and shoved a bite of blueberry pancake in his face, then grinned a blue-tinted smile. 

Neither of them were sure which one had won this battle.


	35. nessian - I had a dream about you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompts: “Wait, did you drink all of that?“ and “ I had a dream about you. Actually no, it wasn’t about you. It was about cats”

Nesta woke on a couch. Whose couch it was, she wasn’t sure. She felt the fabric, not yet daring to open her eyes. She could tell she was on a couch because there was something pressing against her back though she lay on her side, and the fact that her feet, instead of stretching out to her full length, were propped up awkwardly. 

Sighing, she opened her eyes. 

And screamed. 

Cassian was standing over her, grinning. 

When she jumped up their foreheads collided, and Nesta realized why she was asleep on his couch. Her head began to swim, and she reached for the bottle of water that had been left at her side. Taking in a few gulps and then pausing for breath, Nesta narrowed her eyes at Cassian.

“What am I doing on the couch?”

“You fell asleep. We were drinking.” Cassian sat next to her on the couch, motioning for her to hand him the bottle. 

Nesta pointed to the pile of empty beer cans and wine bottles in the corner of the room. “Wait, did you drink all of that?”

“Partly. You certainly helped.”

“Oh. No wonder I feel like shit.” Cassian handed the water bottle back to her, so she finished off the water and held it up. “Thanks for this.”

“Of course, sweetheart.”

A strange, faraway look came across Nesta’s face. She was trying to remember something. What was it? An empty stomach and dehydration certainly wouldn’t help her remember. Nesta stood to get more water and swayed. Apparently, she wasn’t yet sober. 

The swaying of the room helped jog her memory. Thrusting a pointed finger into the air, Nesta yelled “AHA!”

Cassian started. “What? What’s ‘AHA’?”

“I had a dream about you. Actually no, it wasn’t about you. It was about cats.”

Cassian grinned and grabbed the water bottle from Nesta. “I’m sure it was. Was one of those cats named Cassian?”

“No, he was named Jackass,” Nesta shot back. She slumped back down onto the couch. Blinking, she took in more of the room. It looked like a bunch of teenagers had been left home alone, parents out of town, and she had the sense she needed to hurry and clean the messes before anyone else found out what she and Cassian had been up to.

Certainly it hadn’t been just the two of them, but Nesta remembered beginning the evening just the two of them. They must have ended it that way, too.

“I do have a question for you, Nesta.”

“What’s that?

“Why do we have 40 boxes of Girl Scout cookies?”

“You went to the grocery store high again, Cassian. I told you to stop doing that.”

“Oh. Right. Well, we’re stocked on those, aren’t we?”

Nesta rolled her eyes. 

“Nesta, sweetheart.” Cassian came dangerously close to her, his fingers brushing her jaw. His breath brushed her hair from her forehead.

Her pulse sped up. This hadn’t been a part of last night, though it had happened from time to time. 

Cassian leaned in closer, his voice dropping. “You need to brush your teeth. You smell like a fucking vineyard had a baby with a brewery.”

Nesta swatted him away and stood to walk to the bathroom, the sound of Cassian’s laughing following her.


	36. Cazriel - It's the middle of the night, what are you doing here?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: It's the middle of the night, what are you doing here?

Azriel sat up in bed, Truthteller gripped in one hand, the other steadying himself on his sheets.

It had taken him decades to keep from waking at the slightest of sounds, from feeling in mortal danger thanks to an errant breeze or a rodent scurrying around the corners of whatever hovel he had found himself in for the night.

Before Azriel had learned this habit, his brothers’ had surprised him while he slept, and he still bore the scars from that mistake.

But then of course, it wasn’t convenient to jump up, weapon in hand, when he had a bedmate. Someone who had deigned to share the space where he might feel most vulnerable, and therefore most on edge. All of this was why it was far more convenient that he go to them to find his pleasure.

If he found himself in someone else’s bed, he could leave. In his own bed, Azriel was only comfortable being alone.

Azriel squinted, his eyes adjusting to the dark. The noise had been a shuffling of feet, hesitant, the intake of breath of someone who wanted to be heard, but only by him. He knew he would find the shape of someone large in his room, and he sent out all of his senses to find out who it was. He encountered a familiar scent and shape.

Cassian stood in the doorway, waiting to be noticed - for Azriel to set down Truthteller - before he made his way further inside.

“Azriel?” Cassian’s voice was quiet, trying to keep anyone else from waking.

Azriel lowered his arm, tucking the dagger back under his pillow.

“Cassian. It’s the middle of the night, what are you doing here?”

Cassian walked forward, sat on the edge of the bed next to Azriel. He was dressed for bed, in the soft cotton pants that Azriel had pushed down his hips countless times before. Az felt himself leaning towards him, as much from the weight on the mattress as the need to be closer.

Cassian pushed Azriel’s hair from his forehead, let his lips brush where his fingers had traveled.

“I wanted to come see you.” He lifted Azriel’s chin, kissed him. “To be with you.”

Azriel felt his cock twitch, warmth radiating from Cassian in the air that remained between them. He grasped the back of Cassian’s head, pulled his hair slightly and ran his tongue over his own teeth in anticipation of running it over Cassian’s skin.

He pulled back. This was his own bed. Truthteller was here, along with every bit of armor he had ever devised.

“But why did you come to me?” Azriel asked. Cassian was laughter and strength and honor that came from a place of goodness, rather than a sense of obligation. Where Cassian was born to defend others, Azriel was born to defend his own existence. And nothing could convince him otherwise.

The first time they had been together, Azriel had nearly kept his eyes shut. Better to pretend Cassian was a stranger than indulge in the idea that his best friend, and the best male he had ever known, could care for him like that.

“Why not?” Cassian tilted his head.

“Because...” Azriel searched for words that wouldn’t sound self-pitying, “I always thought you would rather find someone else. Not me.”

Cassian let out a sound between a laugh and a sigh. “Don’t be an idiot.” He kissed Azriel’s jaw. “I’m tired of you coming to me.” He shifted, kissing the other side of Azriel’s mouth. “I wanted to find myself in your arms, in your bed, for once.” Cassian reached down, fingertips tracing the planes of Azriel’s stomach, further until he found evidence of exactly how welcome he was.

“And you want to stay here?” Azriel glanced back at his pillow, the bed that was barely large enough to contain himself.

“I want to stay where you are,” Cassian answered.

Azriel leaned back, welcoming Cassian, discarding the past.


	37. Nessian - what did this text mean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “What did this text mean?” “Which text? Oh… fuck.”

Nesta reached over to her nightstand, trying to avoid knocking over the glass of water that she had set there the night before. She and Cassian had fallen into bed late, the end of the night a blur of laughter and spilled drinks. She remembered leaning heavily on him, running into the doorway of their bedroom, feeling him taking her shoes off while she laid sprawled out on the quilt. There had been other vague sounds and grunts in the room before she had felt him flop into the bed next to her and she’d curled into his chest to let sleep take her. Or whatever passed for sleep after that many drinks.

She was probably still wearing her little black dress. That must be the fabric that was currently twisted around her waist. Nesta reached down to straighten it before reaching back over to her nightstand.

Grabbing for her phone, Nesta glanced over at Cassian. He was still asleep, his mouth parted slightly, his bare chest moving up and down slowly, one of his arms thrown across her stomach. She would reach over and touch him, but there was something about his vulnerability in these moments. Something that only she was privy to, in the dark of their bedroom. And she would rather not disturb it.

Nesta unlocked her phone, scrolling through her notifications. Cassian usually kept track of both of their phones when they were drinking, since she was known to text people she had long forgotten about, or post inappropriate things in very public places. But even with Cassian in control of her phone, her determination meant that she had to check all of social media the mornings after they’d had a bit too much fun.

Nesta blinked, looking at a chain of text messages. It was a group message, and her name kept coming up. But why would her name keep coming up if she were part of the group? She exited out of the messaging app and looked at the wallpaper of the phone. Featured was a picture of her, in a red sundress and sporting a smile she shared with few people. She recognized her dress and the setting from an afternoon she had spent with Cassian at the park a few weeks before. And she definitely did not have a picture of herself as her phone wallpaper.

This was not Nesta’s phone. Cassian must have switched their phones, plugging his own into her charger.

Reaching over, Nesta poked Cassian’s shoulder until he stirred. He leaned over to pull her in for a cuddle, but she thrust his phone in his face.

“What did this text mean?” Nesta asked. The group chat included Rhys, Feyre, and Elain. Nesta had only made out a few words before she realized that this was a group chat that she was definitely not supposed to have seen. 

“Which text?” Cassian blinked himself awake, trying to bring the phone screen into focus. “Oh…. Fuck.” He grabbed the phone from Nesta and turned the screen off. “It was nothing. You didn’t see anything. In fact, I think you’re still asleep. Yeah. You’re dreaming.”

Cassian rolled over and pretended to fall asleep. 

Nesta grabbed his shoulder and pulled him, forcing him to look at her. “I told you I didn’t want any surprises.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Ness.”

“My birthday.” Along with her name, Nesta had seen mention of cake and presents, two things that immediately clued her into what the conversation was about.

“Oh, is that coming up soon?” 

Nesta glared at Cassian, whose eyes were open as wide as possible as if to convey ignorance. 

“You, Cassian, are the worst liar I have ever met.” Nesta flopped on her back, biting her bottom lip.

Cassian propped himself up on one arm. “But I’m also the most charming man you’ve ever met, right?” He reached over her to plug his phone back in, and Nesta crossed her arms as if she didn’t notice his weight above her.

“Debatable,” Nesta huffed.

Cassian settled back down, wrapping his arm around Nesta’s waist and nuzzling into her neck. A minute passed, and then another, and Nesta knew that he was waiting for her to say something before he fell asleep again.

“I like chocolate. And not too much frosting,” Nesta said. 

Cassian didn’t answer, but Nesta could feel him smile over the few inches that separated them.


End file.
